


you and i, in unison

by orphan_account



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-17
Updated: 2014-05-04
Packaged: 2018-01-19 19:11:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1480840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He once heard that life had a specific meaning, that it’s like a test that you can’t study for. As soon as you enter the world, kicking and screaming, God hands you a piece of paper and asks you to write. Your whole life, you’re writing. Then you die, and you hand the paper to God, and he decides how to grade you. Pass or fail. Heaven or Hell."</p><p>Brendon Urie lands the lead in an upcoming show on Broadway. The musical director takes an automatic disliking to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this is not 100% accurate in terms of broadway terms and specifics because i'm very uneducated about that sort of stuff. this will be divided in three parts. dedicated to zee, who helped me out in the beginning, because she desperately deserves a ryden broadway au.
> 
> without further ado...

He once heard that life had a specific meaning, that it’s like a test that you can’t study for. As soon as you enter the world, kicking and screaming, God hands you a piece of paper and asks you to write. Your whole life, you’re writing. Then you die, and you hand the paper to God, and he decides how to grade you. Pass or fail. Heaven or Hell.

He always thought that sounded a little unfair. He never asked for this test. He never wanted it.

He learns, later, through no fault of his parents or the church, that life doesn’t really have a meaning. And that’s okay, too. That’s better.

There aren’t always consequences.

…

His fifth (and seemingly last) audition goes terribly. If Brendon were to tell his parents – say _anything_ to them at all – they would tell him it’s a sign that this isn’t what he should be doing. Singing and acting in favor of college, in favor of literally anything else – they would tell him that this is proof.

So the audition goes badly, and he walks out of there, tail between his legs, about to call his “agent” and tell him that’s it, I’m done – take me back to Utah. But Patrick is still asleep by now, and it’s nearly noon, so instead he spends the rest of the day aimlessly wandering around Times Square, trying to remind himself why it’s a good idea to stay. It had been the first time he’d made it past the second audition, and every time he got called back, a stray feeling of hope would worm its way into his skin.

The play is up-and-coming, and he’s been trying to get the lead part of a protagonist-turned-antagonist lawyer. The story is long, complicated, and truthfully he doesn’t quite get the point of it – but it’s been his best shot thus far. The best shot, and he’s fucked it up.

By the time Patrick calls, Brendon is feeling okay enough to stick around. He lies and says the audition went great.

…

Patrick Stump is not _really_ an agent. He’s a friend of a friend of an old friend back in Utah, with more money than God, thanks to his dad still receiving royalties from a band he was in back in the 80s. Music runs in Patrick’s blood, thrums his heart, and Brendon told him once that he felt the same way, and that was it: Patrick had decided to make sure Brendon got auditions. Unofficially an agent, but really just a kid with too much money.

He calls again when Brendon gets back to his shitty apartment, and Brendon does not want to pick up. He does not want to answer, would rather just sink into his mattress and not _think_ , and _especially_ not think about going home. But instead, he answers, because he has no choice otherwise.

And Patrick says, all bright enthusiasm, “They loved you!”

“No, they didn’t,” Brendon says without even pausing to think. “They really –“

“You need more stage direction,” Patrick says, and now it sounds like he’s reading off a list, “and musical staging, and you’ll need –“

“Patrick, I don’t know –“

“They want you!” Patrick sounds like a kid in a candy store, and yeah, okay; so this is his first booking too. “They want you, they say you’re good, you just need –“ And he begins listing more things, like, _coordination_ and _choreography_  and Brendon just nods, numbly, forgetting that Patrick can’t see him.

Finally, Patrick breathes out, “—and they want to see you Monday.”

“What?” Brendon says, and he knows he sounds dumb, he sounds like a fucking idiot, but no way can this be –

“I mean –“ Patrick stops, and it hits Brendon again that Patrick really isn’t cut out for this, isn’t suited to be a agent, isn’t suited to be doing anything but dumb shit with his parents’ money. “I mean, Monday they want you to meet with the musical director. They want to know about your, um – And. Stuff like that.” Those weren’t complete thoughts but Brendon doesn’t care.

“Okay,” he says. The words sound like they aren’t coming from his body.

“Okay!” Patrick enthuses, and Brendon swears he can hear Patrick clap at least once, and then he’s saying, “I gotta – make some calls. Tell mom and dad. They’ll be freaked.”

“Okay,” says Brendon again, because, really, what else is there?

The line hangs up, and Brendon is left staring at his hands. He was so sure – he had been so _sure_ that it had gone badly, and then – _They want you_.

He starts laughing, and once he’s started he can’t stop. It feels like a silent fuck-you to mom and dad, and even though he’s past that pettiness, he can’t help but enjoy it. He really can’t help but laugh.

…

Brendon doesn’t call his parents. He knows that’s dumb, he knows that this is a big deal, that maybe they’ll care, maybe they’ll see –

But he doesn’t want to give them the satisfaction of _knowing_ that he wants them to care. Too stubborn for his own good, that’s what they used to call him back home. It used to earn him spankings when he was a baby, and then scolding when he was too old to be spanked, and then time-outs in the classrooms that never seemed to do their job. He’d stare at the wall until they told him to come back, and it never worked, he never learned.

He still hasn’t, but the classroom is a big world these days, and he has a lot more shit to deal with than his fucking parents.

So, he doesn’t call.

…

Sometimes, in stories, the train being late leads to fateful encounters. If this was one of those stories, Brendon would be waiting for the train, and then bump into this beautiful, mysterious girl, and then they’d hit it off, and his life would change forever.

But this is not a story, and instead, the train being late only makes him late.

He feels like an overwhelming asshole, but when he finally gets to the studio, they usher him in without asking why he’s late, what took up his time. He’s supposed to be the star, but he still feels like a child, disobeying his parents again. The hallways have harsh fluorescent lighting and people keep talking to him but he’s too stunned to absorb much of anything before he’s meeting the rest of the cast.

He is the lead, and he has a female co-star, and she’s beautiful. That’s the first thing he notices about her, of course, because he’s not blind. She extends a hand and says, “Audrey,” and Brendon shakes her hand and says, “Brendon,” to her cleavage.

The first “rehearsal” is mostly about learning the names of the people he’ll be working with, getting to know the musical director, meeting with the cast and crew, because they all have to get along, goddamn it. They all have to get along for the five-weeks-and-four-days they’re stuck with each other, doing their jobs.

The musical director is someone Brendon has to meet, but he’s curiously absent for the first couple hours.

And then, sort of out of nowhere, he appears while Brendon is trying to hit on Audrey by the bathrooms, the only quiet corner he can find while everyone is trying to meet everyone, all at once.

Brendon remembers him from the first two auditions; he’s noticeably thin, a mess of bony limbs and pale skin, evenly-cut brown hair that curls on the ends. He gives Brendon an unappreciative once-over and says, “I remember you,” effectively cutting off something Audrey was trying to say.

Brendon should be grateful for the distraction, because he’s slowly realizing it’s not a good idea to flirt with the co-star, but still he feels a little cheated.

“Um,” he says, and then forgets to be annoyed, because this guy is kind of like his boss, except not. It’s the closest thing he has to a boss here. So. “Yeah, I remember you from a couple auditions.”

Brendon feels oddly scrutinized by him, which is ridiculous. He’s already gotten the part. He’s about to stammer out something else when the man lifts a hand and says, “Ryan Ross. Musical staging, mostly.”

“Brendon,” he says. “Brendon Urie.” He takes the offered hand and tries not to look Ryan right in the eyes, and instead stares in between them, at the bridge of his nose.

Audrey waves a casual hello, and Brendon gets the idea she’s worked with him before. Well, at least that makes one of them. He makes a mental note to ask her about Ryan, figure out what his deal is, what to stay away from and watch for.

As it stands now, Ryan is a little intimidating, if Brendon is honest. It’s not really anything to do with his stature. He’s taller, but not by much, and Brendon is bulkier, also not by much. But there’s an air of calculated disinterest with him, and it unnerves Brendon. He wants to make a good impression. All Ryan appears to feel is bored, underwhelmed apathy. Brendon remembers this from the auditions, too, remembers feeling like Ryan could care less about being there.

Well. Tough luck. Brendon is here now.

Brendon lets go of Ryan’s hand a second too late, finally deciding to meet his gaze. “It’ll be a pleasure working with you.” The pleasantries are required.

Again, the air of disinterest. Ryan looks Brendon up-and-down, taking him in all at once. He glances at Audrey, then back to Brendon, and then lifts a shoulder into a shrug. “Likewise.” Even his eyes manage to convey how utterly unimpressed he is.

Brendon bristles inwardly but lets Ryan walk away before he says anything, which he does. “He seems like a prick.”

Audrey places a hand on Brendon’s shoulder, and she’s smiling, her eyes sparkling. Brendon had almost forgotten she was there. “He can be, yeah,” she says, and she rolls her shoulders despondently, as if to say, _oh well._ “He doesn’t like people.”

“What kind of musical director doesn’t like people?” Brendon is still staring after Ryan, and he shakes his head, looking away at last. “What does he like, then?”

Audrey smiles. “He likes Jac.”

Brendon doesn’t care to ask who Jac is. “Jac doesn’t count as ‘people?’”

“Nah,” Audrey says, and she’s already started walking away, tossing her last words over her shoulder: “Jac is something else entirely.”

…

Jac _is_ people, Brendon finds, but she is not _people_ the way Brendon knows them.

On Tuesday, all the scripts have been lovingly published into handy booklets, and Brendon is supposed to be going over it every single night for the next several weeks, and he doesn’t mind, not really, still managing a genuine hop of excitement every time he sees his name on the casting list. Patrick has called, and he still seems just as shocked as the day Brendon got his first callback, which is helpful. It keeps Brendon humble.

Anyway, Brendon meets Jac on Tuesday, and it’s hard to miss her. She is, by all counts, beautiful, with big eyes and, well, okay, a decent-sized rack. Brendon won’t pretend to be any less of a man. She walks around in unnecessarily high heels, which is strange to see in the studio, and has a face perfectly made-up with absolute precision. He guesses correctly about why she’s here when she’s introduced as one of the makeup artists, responsible for making all those uneven marks and blemishes on his skin fade. She’s there to make him look perfect, and that’s reason enough.

That’s not why she’s here today, obviously. But it explains why she knows everyone, why people keep giving her these big, warm hugs, as if greeting an old friend.

Brendon notices when Ryan, who has been typing away at his laptop all morning, making occasional _hmm_ noises while glancing at the rehearsing cast, gets up out of his chair and greets Jac with a – rather unprofessional – kiss.

The puzzle pieces slot together in Brendon’s brain, and he glances at Audrey, who nods back at him, as if to say, _see_?

Brendon doesn’t know why it matters. It doesn’t. He just needs to get on Ryan’s good side, that’s all. It would make the entire production go much smoother.

Ryan catches him staring, and Brendon goes back to skimming through his lines, trying to figure out when Audrey is supposed to enter the script, and if Ryan is still looking at him, Brendon can feel it more than see it, and he doesn’t look back up to check.

…

Brendon does not call his parents. It has been a week and he still doesn’t call them. They haven’t called either, to be fair, to be totally fair. They haven’t tried to check in.

Instead, Patrick calls, and Brendon answers every time, and Patrick asks the same general questions, and Brendon gives him the same general answers. Patrick is a parent enough for him. Patrick asks about the cast, the studio, the crew, and Brendon tells him practically everything, conveniently leaving out the fact that the musical director has it in for him. It’s not worth mentioning, because it’s probably not even true. Audrey said it herself; he just doesn’t like anyone. Brendon is no exception to the rule.

Patrick makes appreciative noises to show he’s listening, and it’s nice, having someone to talk to like this. Brendon forgets to miss his parents.

Still, every time Patrick hangs up, he asks, “Have you told them yet?”

And Brendon never has to pretend he doesn’t know what Patrick is talking about. He never has to pretend that he’s stupid, feign ignorance. Patrick knows him better. He isn’t made to be an agent, fine, and it’s a miracle Brendon made it this far with him, but Patrick’s intuition knows no boundaries.

Brendon sighs and says, “No.” He doesn’t add that they won’t care, that it won’t change their minds. They’ll still beg him to come home. Guilt-trip him. They’ll tell him the “community misses him” and other lies, conveniently folded in with truths. Dress a lie up with the truth and the whole world will forget not to believe.

Brendon knows better than that, too.

But Patrick still says, “You should.”

And Brendon still says, “Yeah, I know. I will. Promise.”

It’s an empty promise, and Patrick knows it, but they still pretend.

…

The rehearsals take up six hours a day for six days out of the week. By Sunday, Brendon is exhausted, wanting to spend the whole day in bed, fuck all responsibilities and just rest his voice and his aching feet. Unfortunately, the world has it out for him, and he is an adult and has to do adult things on his day off.

If he were back home, he would have church early in the morning and later in the day, and he would be dressed in his Sunday best by 9am.

But he is not home, and he wakes up a little past 11am, feeling hung over with how _tired_ he is, though he hasn’t had a single drink. A few people from the cast and crew invited him out the night before, but he declined. The last thing he needed was to have a real hangover.

He has a to-do list, but it’s all jumbled in his head, and the first thing he manages to remember is that he has to do laundry. He eyes the mountain of dirty clothes in the corner with some disdain. He doesn’t take pride in his place, but there’s no guilt there. The apartment building is shitty, worn-down, but it was the only cheap place he could find that wasn’t in a terrible neighborhood. Patrick had helped him, vouched for his credit. It’s a damn miracle he’s living in the city at all, so he doesn’t complain.

Brendon tosses the laundry bag over his shoulder, starting the trek down the stairs, avoiding a stain that looks vaguely like week-old vomit on the bottom step of the first flight. The laundry room is on the first floor, snuggled in between the landlord’s office and a vending machine that hasn’t been restocked since the early ‘90s. It’s ridiculously hot and smells like smoke. Brendon still can’t complain. He has to be grateful. If anything, his eighteen years in Mormon paradise taught him that.

There’s only one other person in the room, though a few machines are running, and it takes Brendon a second, but he recognizes the narrow frame and brown hair, and if he was lying, he’d say he wasn’t surprised.

But he _is_ surprised to find Ryan Ross, wearing a white t-shirt and boxers, doing his laundry in Brendon’s apartment building.

Well, he supposes it might be Ryan’s apartment building, too, and that thought brings laughter bubbling up inside of him before he can stop it. He firmly shuts his mouth and decides, _now or never_.

“Hey, Ryan.”

Ryan’s gaze lifts from unloading his laundry, and there’s that look again. Brendon swallows down annoyance, but Ryan doesn’t hesitate to allow it to be known. His lips purse slightly and he cards his hair, lifting a hand sort of on reflex. “Hi.”

Brendon looks down at his own laundry, feeling like a dumbass because now he doesn’t know what to say. Ryan doesn’t make conversations easy. “So, uh, you live here?” He gestures to nothing whatsoever, indicating the apartment building.

Ryan looks absolutely pained to be having this conversation. “Yeah. For the past couple years or so.”

Brendon regrets starting this, but he can’t quit now. “Oh. Uh, same here, except. For a year now.” He wonders how come he never ran into Ryan before, but he supposes it’s one of those things. Like when you hear a song for the first time, and suddenly you hear it all the time, at the coffee shop or on the radio or in commercials. One of those things.

Ryan doesn’t say anything to that, but hums disinterestedly, finishing loading the rest of his laundry into a wicker basket. Brendon can feel his frustration prickling his skin. He hasn’t done anything, has he? It really does feel like Ryan doesn’t like him, specifically. He realizes now that maybe Audrey was right about Ryan not liking people, but Ryan definitely had something against Brendon personally, too. And he can’t figure out what it is.

When Ryan is about to sweep past him to the door, Brendon instinctively grabs his arm, and Ryan stops in his tracks. He doesn’t wrench away or anything like that, but Brendon can practically feel how badly he wants to.

“Look,” Brendon says, turning fully to face him. “I know you don’t like me, and that’s fine. Just. We have to get along. For the production.”

Ryan shrugs Brendon’s hand off, and it feels like he’s been burned, but he lets his hand fall willingly. “I don’t not like you,” he says, and the objection is weak and half-assed. “I don’t like unprofessionalism.”

Brendon furrows his brow at that. “When was I –“

“As a word of advice,” Ryan cuts in, not letting Brendon finish, “it’s never a good idea to hook up with a co-star. It gets. Complicated. It could completely jeopardize the show.”

Brendon shakes his head, half-bewildered. He had sort of tried to hit on Audrey in the beginning, but thought better of it, and he’s been keeping his hands to himself. He’s been a good boy, goddamn it. But he remembers now, when Ryan first saw him, and it clicks together in his head.

“Oh.” Brendon presses his lips together. “That was – I wasn’t really –“ He fumbles over his words before letting them come out, carefully, “I know that. I figured – you know. I haven’t tried to.”

Ryan still looks unimpressed, and Brendon feels like a dog who’s just been scolded. “We’ll get along,” Ryan says, taking a step back. “We have to, don’t we?”

The question is rhetorical, and Ryan sounds pained, as if the last thing he wants is to be ‘getting along’ with Brendon. Still, Brendon nods, affirming it.

“Then I’ll see you.” Ryan doesn’t bother exchanging any more pleasantries before he’s gone, and the laundry room feels colder without him in it, as if he took all the heat with him. Brendon bites down on his lip, feeling like a goddamn asshole. Flirting with Audrey on the job? And it _was_ a job, a job he was _lucky_ to have, and now he feels like an idiot. Patrick would have hit him.

He starts his first load of laundry, watching the clothes swirl around and around, the colors all blending together.

…

The next day’s rehearsals are a nightmare, because Brendon had gotten used to his day off. They’re focusing on choreography, and this is something Brendon loves. The dancing aspect of theater is what drew him to it in the first place. Except for the glaring problem: Brendon can’t really dance.

It’s no matter, they said, when he told them. They had shrugged their shoulders, clapped him on the back, told him, “We’ll make a dancer out of you yet.”

And it’s been proving to be mostly true. Despite the fact that his feet are aching and his back is cramping by the end of the third hour, Brendon looks almost as if he’s taken a beginner’s course or two. Ryan remains in the corner, taking notes on his laptop again, and Brendon wonders what the hell his purpose is, anyway.

After the laundry room incident, Ryan hasn’t been wholly unfriendly to Brendon, but he’s still kept his distance. It’s fine. Brendon isn’t bothered. Still, he doesn’t like knowing that the musical director of his first production thinks he’s an asshole. That is not the way he’d wanted to start his career in the industry.

He isn’t bothered, damn it. He isn’t.

Jac comes and goes, which no one seems to mind. She has a bubbly personality, brightening the room, and no one complains when she sticks around to watch the rehearsals. It’s a big studio, and having her around isn’t an issue. She looks Brendon’s way often, making encouraging comments here and there, and although Ryan looks mildly bothered, it’s not his place to intervene. The choreography has little to do with him; his importance comes a little later, when Brendon is trusted to memorize the song was well as where to put his feet.

The choreographer is a man named Pete. That’s how he introduces himself, and that’s what he is called. No formalities, he said, he is only here to help, not teach. Brendon likes him already, finding that at least most of the people in the crew have friendly faces and attitudes.

Ryan still ignores him.

…

“Brendon!”

He’d just been leaving for his lunch break when Jac corners him, and with her heels on, she is almost his height. For the first time he is sort of intimidated by her, but she flashes a bright smile and takes him by the arm. Her polished nails dig in, and she says, “Sorry, we don’t know each other well. Thought we should change that.”

Brendon doesn’t really know how to say no to pretty girls yet. He says, “Okay,” and nods dumbly, and lets her drag him wherever it is she wants to go.

Jac ends up taking him through the double doors and out onto the street, and he gets the idea of where she’s going when she crosses, making a beeline for the pizza place across the street. Brendon has a vague notion that he doesn’t have the money for this, but Jac flashes her teeth again, and he decides to keep quiet about it.

He ends up ordering a slice and sitting across from her in an outside booth, still wondering how he got there. He notices, and definitely not for the first time, that she is pretty, and she wears too much makeup, but maybe that’s the appeal. He looks around nervously. He doesn’t need Ryan seeing him eating lunch with his girlfriend, as harmless as it may be.

“So,” Jac says. “Brendon Urie. Right?”

Brendon nods and doesn’t ask how she got that. Maybe Ryan told her, or maybe she glanced at his notes one night, saw all the things Ryan’s been writing about Brendon’s imminent failure. He wouldn’t be surprised.

Jac hums, and she seems genuinely interested. Brendon watches her lick grease off of a finger and tries not to think about _that_. He looks anywhere else, then, anywhere but at her.

“What brings you to New York?”

Brendon says, “Theater,” to his half-eaten slice.

Jac hums again. “Where are you from?”

He doesn’t really like to answer that. They still haven’t called. He hasn’t called. “Utah,” he says, and that’s as specific as he’ll get. He doesn’t talk about Mormon paradise, not even to Patrick.

Jac makes an appreciative noise, though he knows it’s probably a formality. There isn’t anything worth mentioning in Utah. Brendon wasn’t worth mentioning until he left. If he had stayed, he would’ve never been mentioned at all.

“Sorry for interrogating you,” Jac says, and she seems genuine. She laughs a little and shakes her head. “You’re just not like everyone else in there. You know?”

He doesn’t know, but he can kind of guess. He gets the idea that money flows easily there, the cast and crew never looking like they know how to go without, and he’s never had that, barely has a dime to his name. If it weren’t for Patrick. God, if it weren’t for him –

Brendon was effectively homeless when he got to the city. He doesn’t want a sob story, though. He’d rather lie than give anyone a reason to pity him. Then they’d ask why his parents didn’t support him, why he’s all alone in the big city, and that’s too much, even for him.

So he says, “I guess maybe I’m not,” but leaves it at that.

Jac takes the hint. “We’re going to be seeing a lot of each other, you and I.”

Brendon already sees a lot of her. “Yeah, I guess so.”

Jac grins, and her teeth are perfectly white, and Brendon is vaguely reminded of a Rottweiler baring its teeth before it bites down. “Just thought I should get to know you more. Since we’ll be seeing so much of each other.”

The words aren’t entirely lost on him, and he’s not an idiot, not really. He can tell when a woman is flirting, at least. His palms sweat. This is the last thing he _needs_. Ryan was already accusing him of unprofessionalism when –

Oh, _shit_. Brendon had almost forgotten about Ryan.

“Um,” Brendon starts, stupidly. “How long have you and Ryan been. You know?” Whatever it is that they were doing, Brendon doesn’t want to be caught in the middle.

Jac’s smile vanishes. “Oh.” She clears her throat. “Uh. A year? Maybe?” She looks thoughtful, and Brendon gets the idea maybe it’s complicated. It’s complicated enough without him. He instinctively inches back, but it doesn’t help in the cramped confines of the booth. She can still reach out and touch him.

“That’s nice,” Brendon says, his skin crawling with the desperate need to _get out of there right fucking now_. “He seems to, uh. Really brighten up when you’re around.” This is kind of a lie, but he can’t stop talking, can’t figure out how to lure her away from whatever she’d been thinking before he brought up Ryan Ross.

Jac’s bottom lip juts out, and she looks practically heartbroken that Brendon isn’t rising to her hints. He finishes the last few bites of his pizza, practically wolfing them down, before rising to his feet. He doesn’t really know what to say to her now. This was a bad idea. His lunch break is almost over and he feels like throwing up.

“Uh. We should head back?” Brendon points his thumb in the direction of the studio.

Jac looks the picture of innocence when she stands up, and Brendon doesn’t believe her for a second, but at least he’s managed to effectively silence her for now. “God, they really don’t give you guys enough time to eat before you’re back on your feet again.” Her tone is purely conversational this time, and Brendon breathes a sigh of relief.

“Nope,” he agrees.

The walk back is short but God definitely has it in for him, because they run into Ryan on his way out, practically colliding with him. Brendon’s about to stutter out an apology when Jac pipes up with, “Hey!”

Like it’s totally normal that she chose to have lunch with Brendon rather than her… whatever it is they are.

Brendon hates feeling like he’s been caught at something, when he’s done his best to avoid any kind of Something with Jac. He’s not unprofessional. He’s _not_. He’s a goddamn professional and fuck Ryan Ross, fuck him for thinking that he isn’t.

 Ryan looks a mixture of disinterested and accusatory when he glances between Jac and Brendon, and Brendon just shoves his hands in his pockets, dutifully averting his eyes. He just hopes Ryan isn’t confrontational. He hopes Ryan has some common fucking sense.

Ryan says, “I’m just heading out for lunch.” His jaw tightens noticeably. “Jac?”

Right, yeah. They aren’t essential crew right now. They don’t have specific lunch times.

Jac looks guilty, and, yeah, _good_ , Brendon thinks. But the guilt is gone in a second and she chirps, “Sure! I’m starving!” A lie, a bad one, but no one calls her on it. The fact that she felt like she had to lie in the first place is enough to make Brendon worry. God, it’s not like he _did_ anything.

Still, Ryan’s eyes are glaring, and Brendon doesn’t feel comfortable looking at him, and even when Ryan and Jac have gone, walking hand-in-hand down the sidewalk, Brendon doesn’t feel like he’s won the fight against her at all.

He walks back inside, readying himself for bruised soles and aching back muscles, trying to push everything else away. He’s a goddamn professional. He _is_ , goddamn it.

…

Sundays are a fucking _solace_.

Patrick calls in the morning, just checking in, and thankfully he doesn’t ask if Brendon has called (which he hasn’t) or if they have called (which they haven’t). He makes vague suggestions to meet up later in the day, but Brendon has more important plans.

He really needs to jerk off.

It’s been _ages_ , and he usually is okay with his sex life, he’s usually okay with going a while without sex. He’s never been obsessed with it, anyways. It’s good when it’s good, and even when it’s bad it’s alright, but he doesn’t _need_ it. He never felt that primal urge.

Except for now, because he’s been practically celibate for far too long, and even when he gets home from rehearsals, he doesn’t have the _energy_.

After Brendon hangs up on Patrick, he sprawls out on the bed, eyeing his morning wood with some longing. His hand slips beneath the waistband of his boxers and he starts tugging, trying to make some magic happen. It doesn’t take long for him to harden fully under his hand, and then he’s racking his brain for the usual material.

His eleventh grade English teacher, who had great tits. Up, down, up, down. Faceless bodies, breathy moans, feminine bodies, soft skin, red lips – Up and down and up and –

A knock on his door.

Brendon ignores it. He’s close, he’s so close. His crush in high school, who had these _legs_. Up down up down, a squeeze on the upstroke –

More knocking. Brendon is _close_ –

“Brendon!”

His orgasm dies almost as soon as he becomes aware of it approaching. He jerks up on the bed, hand still on his cock, dazed and angry, so fucking _angry_.

On his _day off?_

Brendon pulls on pants hastily, muttering to himself, struggling to shove his aching cock into a pair of jeans that _really_ need to be washed. He opens the door, and, yeah, just like he _thought_ , and now he’s angry enough to punch Ryan Ross in the fucking face.

“It’s my day off,” Brendon says, in lieu of saying hello.

Ryan quirks a brow. “Okay?”

Brendon feels like whining, but he remembers himself just in time, remembers to be _professional_. “So? Why are you here?” He pauses, realizing something. “Hey, how did you even know –“

“I’ve seen you around,” Ryan says, dismissively, which isn’t much of an answer, unless Ryan is on the same floor, which, _God_ , how fucking _convenient_ –

Brendon is aware of his state of undress. He bothered to put on pants, but he’s still sporting an obvious boner. If Ryan notices, he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t acknowledge it at all. Instead, Ryan pushes past him into Brendon’s apartment, completely uninvited, like he fucking _owns_ the place.

Brendon just says, “Uh, okay,” and doesn’t stop him, getting more angry by the second. It’s his _day off_ and he can’t even jerk off in peace.

Ryan says, “This place is a shithole,” as he looks around, and Brendon struggles not to burn hotly from the words, but he does. _God_.

“Thanks,” he says absently, running his fingers through his unwashed hair. “Why are you here?” He doesn’t know if he’s asked that already, but Ryan doesn’t seem intent on giving him a definitive answer.

Ryan lifts his hand, drawing Brendon’s attention to a laminated booklet he’s holding. “You left your script.”

Brendon blinks. “Oh.” He doesn’t know why Ryan _bothered_. Still, he mumbles, “Thanks,” and reaches for it. Ryan tosses it carelessly, and Brendon really needs to remind himself why he’s acting _professional_.

Ryan keeps looking around, and he looks bored and full of disdain, and Brendon hates the way he looks like that. It’s effectively killing his hard-on, which he supposes might be a good thing. It’s not like he wants to keep it up now, not when Ryan is here, looking like he fucking owns the place, like he deserves to be there.

“Is that all you wanted?” Brendon says, his temper running short.

Ryan looks at him at last, lazily, like he supposes he _has_ to. “Oh, right. Yeah.” He takes a breath and laughs shortly, but nothing’s funny. “Don’t fuck my girlfriend.”

Brendon lets out an involuntary snort of laughter before he realizes that Ryan isn’t joking, and then he just sort of stands there, awkwardly. “I, uh.” What the fuck does he say to that? “I didn’t plan on it.”

There is something definitely accusing in Ryan’s gaze, and Brendon doesn’t know how the fuck to react to this kind of situation. He’s never _been_ in this type of situation, and he supposes maybe it’s a rite of passage, maybe he should be pleased to cross this off the list, but mostly he’s confused.

“Look, I –“ Ryan shrugs one shoulder, looking utterly nonchalant. Brendon doesn’t know how he manages to do that. “I’m not mad. She wants to fuck all the leads, I’m not bothered. Just don’t fuck her.”

Brendon feels like crawling into a fucking hole and dying. “I’m sure she doesn’t –“

“Fuck off,” Ryan says, and he’s laughing now, but it’s not because anything’s funny. “You _know_ she does. Just.” And he takes in a breath, and he doesn’t even look sad, Brendon thinks, he doesn’t even look angry, he just looks bored. “Don’t.”

“Um,” Brendon starts. He’s still not sure of what to say. “Okay.”

“Good.” Ryan smiles, and it’s not the kind of smile that reaches his eyes, but at least it’s something. He starts to shove past Brendon, obviously having completed whatever task he felt he had at hand.

Just before Brendon can close the door, Ryan’s hand grabs at the doorframe, effectively stopping him. Brendon glances at him in surprise, and Ryan says, “If you do, though,” and his eyes are dark, and Brendon feels something in his stomach twist, something ugly and wrong. “If you do, I’ll fucking destroy your career. I promise.”

It’s a definite threat, and Brendon wonders if it’s an empty one, but it certainly doesn’t feel like it, not when Ryan is looking at him like that. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up, and suddenly he feels hot and cold all at once. Ryan is still looking at him, and Brendon avoids his eyes and says, “Yeah. Got it.”

Ryan doesn’t smile this time. Not even a fake one.

The door closes, and Brendon stares at the wood paneling.

He looks down at his hands and notices, absently, that he’s still hard.


	2. Chapter 2

After the first couple weeks of choreography, Pete decides it’s time to work in the music, and this is where Ryan comes in, and _God,_ as if Brendon needed to work with Ryan Ross now, after all of that. But, fate has it in for him, and he learned a while ago that there is no God, so now he’s stuck with this.

Ryan isn’t bad at this, and Brendon guesses there’s a reason why Ryan has such a holier-than-thou attitude. He gives direction without being demanding, and mostly his job is to make sure that the right lines are being sung at the right times, making sure that Brendon’s choreography is on point with his voice, and it’s hard fucking work, it _is_. Brendon wants this, though. That’s what makes the difference.

Ryan gives comments to Audrey, who is out of tune _and_ out of step, but mostly he keeps quiet about Brendon, like he doesn’t really want to say anything to him. Well, that’s _fine_. Brendon has resigned to the fact that he will never get along with Ryan. Even when it seems like they’ve come to an understanding, something – like Jac, the fucker – will push them back several steps, and they’re back to the beginning again.

It doesn’t bother him. Obviously.

Brendon manages to stay on his marker, singing the right notes, the right lines. If he focuses, he can be good at anything. That’s what his mom used to tell him, when he was a hyperactive little kid with too much energy for his own good, bouncing off the walls of a classroom. She used to tell him, “Bren, you just need to _focus_ , and then you can be good at _anything_.”

He thinks about that now. It had been good advice then, and it’s good advice now. Ryan barely has to say a word to him. Maybe Brendon is relieved about that, too.

The dislike is mutual. _Obviously._

…

On the following Saturday, against Brendon’s total better judgment, he goes out with some of the cast and crew to a bar downtown, and it’s a few beers in when he realizes that this was probably a great idea. He needs to become friends with them, get to know them better. He needs to – as Patrick told him, when this all began a thousand years ago, it seems – make _connections_. And he’s stuck with these people for a long time, a long ass time, and it’s not a bad idea to become friends. Audrey seems to know everyone in this city, and she flashes a sweet smile at the bartender and no one ends up getting carded.

For whatever reason, Ryan was invited, and for whatever _other_ reason, Ryan decides to go. Brendon isn’t bothered. He’s _not_. He has to get along with Ryan, too, and maybe a few beers is all Ryan needs to become a vaguely likable person.

No such luck. Ryan dangles keys and says, “Designated driver,” when Audrey offers him a beer, and Brendon gets less hopeful as the night goes on.

Audrey doesn’t seem bothered. She grins, a few drinks past the point of tipsy, shaking her head. “God, Ross,” she says, giggling. “You don’t have to be our boss _all_ the time.”

“I’m never your boss,” Ryan says, but doesn’t press the issue. “If any of you died, it would ruin the fucking show.”

Brendon laughs at that, despite himself. Ryan glances his way, but doesn’t acknowledge him past that. Jac isn’t here. Brendon doesn’t take the time to analyze that, tries not to think about it at all.

He instead focuses on Gabe, one of the supporting actors, who is telling some fantastic story that seems like a blatant exaggeration of a vague truth. More than a couple times, Brendon can _feel_ rather than see Ryan’s gaze on him, but after a couple more drinks, he forgets to be that aware of it. He keeps taking generous sips of his beer, trying to listen to Gabe’s stories, which keep getting longer and more magnificent with every drink Gabe consumes.

Still, everyone else is laughing, and Brendon finds himself having a good fucking time, thank you very much. He doesn’t even pay attention to Ryan Ross. He doesn’t even need to.

At some point, Audrey is roughly as drunk as he is, and he doesn’t really understand it, but he feels her hand sliding up his thigh, and he knows what she’s trying to get at, and it doesn’t feel very professional, like they’re a couple of high school kids trying to get off. But the thrill is there, of course, and she’s beautiful and he’s not really thinking clearly, so he lets her palm him through his jeans, lets her stroke him, lazily, until his cock is hard and pressed demandingly against his thigh.

He feels like a fucking kid again, but he’s nineteen and he’s not exactly excused from making  dumb fucking decisions like this. Gabe is still talking, captivating most of everyone’s attention, and Brendon is bored of listening to him, but he likes this, and his cock is hard and _God,_ he could really use a blowjob.

Audrey keeps rubbing him, and it’s good, it feels good but his dick feels like it’s being constricted in his jeans, and he doesn’t know how to fix that without making it obvious. He’s too drunk for this, he’s too –

“Brendon.”

Ryan has said his name. Brendon’s eyelids feel heavy and he shifts to face Ryan, and, yeah, he’s too drunk for this. Audrey slips her hand away, as if suddenly deciding it wasn’t such a great idea after all. Brendon struggles to focus on Ryan. “Mmyeah?”

“I’m taking you home,” Ryan says, and Brendon actually feels like this is a great plan, but he wonders if he maybe he shouldn’t listen to himself, if he’s at that level yet. He’s too drunk and now he’s horny and, wow, no, he should probably go home. He definitely should go home.

He doesn’t want to give Ryan the satisfaction of being right about this, along with everything, but he has to pick his battles. He just nods dumbly, and they stick around long enough to make sure everyone has a cab, no one is off in the streets.  Brendon is sobering up a little but he’s still hard, and he hopes Ryan doesn’t notice. The last thing he needs is for Ryan to think he’s some desperate, horny teenager, getting off under the table at a bar.

Ryan closes the door to the cab, waving goodnight to the several people clustered together in the backseat – Brendon can make out Audrey’s voice mingling with Gabe’s, and a second voice, maybe Vicky, and he wonders if Gabe’s going to get lucky tonight. Brendon should be bothered, but he can’t find it in him. He’s hard, but he’s tired, and he’s drunk, and he has a whole fucking car ride back to the apartment building with Ryan to look forward to.

It’s not awful, because Brendon just focuses on staying awake, wondering how he’s going to make it up the stairs. Ryan drives carefully, quietly, doesn’t even turn on the radio. A few times Brendon can feel Ryan’s gaze on him, but it barely penetrates through the haze of drunkenness, and by the time they get to the apartments, Brendon is almost asleep.

The process of getting to his room is a blur, but he sees the hallway, and then it’s Ryan asking him for his keys, and Brendon handing Ryan his keys, slumped against the wall. And then it’s Brendon clutching onto Ryan, his hands fisted in his shirt, breathing hot into his neck, trying to steady himself.

And it doesn’t register, it doesn’t make sense, but Brendon is hard, and he hasn’t softened enough, it has to be noticeable, he knows it is. Ryan’s breath keeps hitching, and he’s muttering, “Fuck, fuck,” under his breath, and Brendon still doesn’t register it. He doesn’t understand why he hasn’t softened.

Ryan gets him into bed, and when Brendon looks at him, Ryan looks fucking pissed, like he can’t believe he got stuck carrying Brendon around like a limp toddler all night.

Something wells up inside of Brendon and he feels like an idiot. He feels so fucking embarrassed.

“Thanks.” His voice is soft and sleepy with alcohol and exhaustion, and he feels like a baby, like Ryan has to _take care_ of him, and it’s not fucking fair. He’s not a kid anymore. He doesn’t need anyone to look after him.

Ryan just gives him this look, this pitying look, and Brendon hates him, Brendon fucking _hates_ him. He’s not much younger than Ryan, a few years maybe. He’s not a kid. He’s not a fucking _kid_.

He’s too drunk to argue this, too drunk to fight back against the look in Ryan’s eyes, and when Ryan leaves, Brendon feels like screaming but he can’t figure out why.

Instead, he pushes his jeans down to mid-thigh and his hand slips underneath the waistband of his boxers. It’s quick and hard and fast, him pumping his swollen cock, trying to chase something, anything to make him stop feeling so fucking _angry_ , and it’s only a few hard strokes before he’s coming all over his fist, like he’s been waiting for a long time, too long, to do that.

He ponders cleaning up, but he falls asleep before he can decide to move.

…

Brendon wakes up with a hangover the size of Manhattan and is forced to answer his phone. It’s Patrick, of course, and of course he has to answer. He owes Patrick that, at least. He answers with a groggy, “Hey, Pat.”

“Well, you sound awake.” Patrick’s voice on the other side is bright and cheery. Brendon checks the clock. Shit, it’s past noon. He hasn’t woken up this late in a while.

“I’m awake,” Brendon protests. “Just wish I wasn’t.”

Patrick laughs, and the sound rattles through Brendon, but at least it wakes him up enough. “Just was gonna ask how you’ve been, but from the sound of it, you’ve been great. And drunk.” He laughs again and Brendon winces.

“I’ve been alright and drunk,” he corrects, muttering to himself. It takes him a while to get his bearings but when he looks down he sees his jeans and his boxers and there’s still come on him, and he makes a face, wishing he had been less drunk last night.

“Getting along with everyone?”

Brendon rolls his eyes. “Yeah, mom.” Even before the words leave his mouth, he regrets saying them, because that means the inevitable –

“Oh, yeah, I’ve been meaning to ask.” Patrick’s tone is cautious but firm all at once, and Brendon gets it, he _does_. “How did they react when you told them?”

Brendon feigns ignorance. “Told who what?” It’s a dumb move, Patrick always calls him out on that shit.

“You didn’t call your parents, did you?”

“They haven’t called me, either.” Dumb, dumb, dumb.

Patrick’s sigh is exasperated and Brendon wishes Patrick could understand, wishes that he could get why Brendon doesn’t want to call. It’s simpler for him. His parents were absent, but they still cared, they still handed him money whenever he needed it. They still gave a fuck. Brendon’s parents don’t want him to be successful. They want him to come home. They want him to devote himself to the church, spend the rest of his life there.

Brendon _can’t_ call. There’s still a part of him that is a kid, a little fucking kid, on a joy ride from disobeying his parents, except he doesn’t want to come back. He doesn’t want to get off this ride.

“I’ll call,” Brendon says, and Patrick doesn’t believe him, he has no reason to.

“Maybe they’ll call,” Patrick says, and Brendon stifles a snort of laughter.

“Yeah,” he says. “Maybe.”

When Patrick hangs up, Brendon steps out of his jeans and underwear and takes a hot shower, washing the layer of filth on his skin, the come on his stomach, and for the first time he wonders if he’s doing as well as he thought he was. He’s still waking up at noon, nursing a hangover, covered in sweat and his own come, like he never left high school, like he _ever_ got to do those kinds of things back there.

Brendon makes a mental note to stop acting like a teenager, even though he is one. It’s decidedly unprofessional.

…

When Brendon’s parents do call, it’s at an extremely inconvenient time. Like they knew that this would be the correct time to ruin his life.

Brendon answers the phone against his better judgment, on the subway on the way to the studio on Monday morning, and _fuck_ , he really doesn’t need this. But he has to. He promised Patrick, and that’s enough.

“Hello?” He prays it’s his mom, and not his dad. At least his mom had sweet things to say. His mom had good things to tell him whenever it was her.

“Hey, son.” It’s Brendon’s dad who answers back, and Brendon nearly kicks himself. Of course, he couldn’t be that lucky.

The subway is crowded and loud, and Brendon feels like this is a conversation he shouldn’t be having here, but it’s too late. He’s dug his grave and it’s time for him to sit in it. He exhales shakily, already being reduced to a kid. “Hey, dad. How’s, uh. How’s mom?”

It’s been a month since the last call, and the knowledge of it is heavy in the silence between them. The last call hadn’t been a good one. It had been Brendon’s mom, begging for him to come home, tears in her voice, and Brendon’s dad, _demanding_ him to come home, and Brendon saying, fuck off, fuck off, I’m _never_ going back. He had hung up, stood there for a few minutes feeling angry and sorry, and waited for a call back.

This time, his mom is nowhere to be heard on the other line, and his dad is saying, “She’s good. Misses you.”

Brendon waits for it to come, the rest of it, the inevitable screaming match. It doesn’t come because Brendon doesn’t ask for it to. He presses his lips in a thin line, trying to figure out how to proceed without it ending up the way it always does. He almost forgets he has good news until the subway jerks to a halt, and he’s reminded of where he is.

“I got a part,” he says, chewing on his lip nervously. Nervously, _fuck_. As if he should be feeling nervous. He should be damn proud. He is, he is, _he is_. He just wants his dad to be proud too, hates that he feels that way, hates that he even has to admit it.

“Did you?” Brendon hates hates _hates_ the disinterest in his dad’s tone, and he feels his blood boiling. “Is it everything you thought it’d be?”

Brendon struggles to keep his voice level. “It is. I got the lead. I’m good enough for the lead.” He doesn’t know why he keeps rambling about it, like it fucking matters, like it’ll change anyone’s mind. He doesn’t know what he’d expected, honestly. Did he expect his dad to congratulate him? Fuck. Fuck, he doesn’t know why he bothered. He doesn’t know why he keeps bragging. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t fucking matter.

The conversation shifts almost immediately, and Brendon can almost feel the shift in the air, but it’s not possible, he knows that. “You know, everyone misses you down here. You shouldn’t be up there, you know that’s not really where you want to be.”

Brendon laughs a humorless laugh. “I don’t want to do this right now.”

The subway comes to another halt, and Brendon makes sure this isn’t his stop. He hears his dad sigh wearily, like this is a chore, calling him. “I _told_ your mother you weren’t going to listen –“

Something explodes inside of him and he says without thinking, “Fuck you.”

“Don’t you _dare_ –“

“I don’t want to talk to you.” Brendon doesn’t feel like a little kid anymore, suddenly. Even the last time, he had felt like a child throwing a tantrum, but he feels utterly justified this time. He feels different, and he doesn’t know why, but it’s all happening all at once, and he doesn’t get it, he doesn’t need to. “I don’t want to talk to you, dad. I don’t want you to call me. I don’t want to call you.”

There’s silence on the other end.

“And,” Brendon continues, feeling brave, “I am going to be so fucking _successful_. I’m _good_ at this. And I like it. I fucking _like_ it. And I’m going to do so much better than anyone from that fucking place. I’m going to _be_ so much better.”

People are staring at him, but he’s not paying attention to them. His dad is breathing on the other line, still there, still listening.

Brendon’s fingertips are shaking when he says, “I don’t want you to talk to me anymore.” Like it’s final.

He hangs up, without waiting for an answer, and suddenly it is final. It is absolutely final.

…

Brendon is late, and of course it would be on a day that he answers to Ryan. He’s late because he ends up throwing up after his phone call with his dad, and he spends a good five minutes in the bathroom of the pizza place across the street puking his scrambled eggs up. He supposes it’s only fair that he gets it all out, so he waits, and then by the time he is coherent enough to stumble into the studio, he’s ten minutes late.

Ten minutes is _nothing_ , ten minutes is miniscule in the scale of all the time they have to work on the choreography and the singing, but Ryan is clearly not having a good day. Jac has been hanging around again, which, okay, good for them, but it hasn’t done anything for Ryan’s mood.

Ryan says, “You’re late.”

Brendon wipes his mouth, hoping that he doesn’t smell like vomit. “Yeah, I know. Sorry.” He greets Audrey with a casual wave, and if she remembers anything from the disastrous night out, she doesn’t give it away. She smiles at him as he takes his spot next to her.

Ryan looks like he wants to argue more, but they’re already behind schedule, and in a week’s time they’ll be heading to the actual theater for tech practice. It’s cutting down to the wire, and Brendon should’ve known better than to be late. Even ten minutes, he should’ve been better about it.

He fucks up a lot during this rehearsal, because he’s still weak from throwing up, still nervous and shaky from his phone call with dad. Audrey tries to pretend nothing’s wrong, but Brendon keeps hitting the wrong notes, his feet on the wrong mark, his choreography clumsy like he hasn’t practiced. He has. He just can’t fucking remember anything.

After a couple hours of this, Ryan cuts the music off and tells everyone to take a break. Audrey glances at Brendon, looking a little sorry, and Brendon feels like the worst asshole when Ryan calls him over.

“What the _fuck_ is wrong with you today?”

The venom in his voice surprises Brendon, and he physically recoils from it. He bites his lip, trying to meet Ryan’s level gaze, but there’s so much anger and disappointment and darkness there, and Brendon finds it almost impossible to look him in the eye.

“Sorry,” he mutters, and it’s not enough.

“God,” Ryan scoffs, and there’s something so wrong about this, something so _off_. “You’re fucking pathetic, Brendon. You’re – You’re all over the place, you’re not _focusing_ , and we don’t have time for this – we don’t have time to deal with you acting like a _child_ –“

The back of Brendon’s neck feels hot with shame and anger, and he says, “Look, I fucked up a little, but –“

“Not just a _little_ ,” Ryan corrects. “You’re _hopeless_ , you’re dead weight. I knew, I told them, I said we can’t hire this kid, not _this_ kid, he’s too young, he’ll fuck it up –“

The words keep falling on Brendon like nails, and he doesn’t know what the fuck is Ryan’s problem, because it’s more than him messing up the choreography, it’s more than that. “What the fuck is your issue –“

“My issue!” Ryan laughs, and by now the room has mostly cleared out. Jac and Audrey are still standing a ways away, pretending not to be listening, even when it’s obvious they are. “My _issue_ is you, you’re a fucking kid, you’re just – you have no _sense_ , you’re so –“

Ryan’s neck is flushed and Brendon has never seen him this angry, never. It doesn’t add up, it doesn’t make sense. Brendon gets the feeling that this isn’t about the choreography, but he can’t figure it out, he can’t figure out what the fuck it could be about. Maybe it’s about Jac, but he doesn’t get it. He doesn’t understand, and maybe that makes him a child. Maybe that’s what Ryan is getting at.

“Fuck you,” Brendon says, and it’s without malice or anger. He’s left all of those feelings back on the subway, on the phone with his dad. Ryan scoffs, looking like he couldn’t care less, like it’s all the same to him.  “I’m taking the day off.”

It’s not really his decision to make, but Ryan waves him off anyway, like it’s fine, like it doesn’t matter either way. Brendon can’t help but feel embarrassed, like he’s just been a very bad dog, and when he leaves, he’s six blocks down the street before he realizes he’s left all of his stuff there. His script, his bag. He has his phone and his wallet. He decides that’s enough and begins to wander aimlessly, trying to calm down, trying to remember why he wants this, why it matters.

He relives the conversation with his dad, over and over, and it makes him feel better, it does, even if only a little bit.

…

It’s nearly dark by the time Brendon has run out of cigarettes and decides now is probably a good time to get his stuff back from the studio. It’s an early day today, so he doesn’t expect the rest of the cast and crew to be hanging around. Maybe Pete, he tends to stay pretty late. If the doors are locked, he can just call Pete.

Fortunately, the doors are unlocked, and Brendon enters the studio, expecting to find it empty. Instead, Ryan is sitting in one of the plastic chairs in the back, typing away at his laptop. That’s how Brendon usually finds him – when it’s clear he doesn’t want to be found.

Ryan glances up, and he stops typing, peering at Brendon above the white glare from his screen. Almost instantly Brendon feels his guts burning, and he just wants to get out of there, get away from Ryan. He’ll be able to deal with this better in the morning.

“Sorry,” Brendon says, and then feels like a dumbass for apologizing. Ryan should be apologizing, not him. He’s not the one who threw a fucking temper tantrum over a few missteps. “I’m just grabbing my stuff.” He shouldn’t have to explain a goddamn thing to Ryan, he _shouldn’t_.

“Okay.” Ryan sets his laptop down on the ground, and through the slanted blinds on the single window in the room, the setting sun gives the whole room a strange, orange glow. Brendon turns back around, kneeling down to put his script back in his bag. Stupid, stupid. He should’ve stuck around today.

Brendon stands back up, slinging his bag over his shoulder. He turns around to say goodbye to Ryan when he sees Ryan’s stood up, his laptop closed, his chair abandoned, and there’s something in the way he’s looking at Brendon, the way the light around him is bathing him in this brilliant orange light, and Brendon’s heart stutters and stops.

“Um,” Brendon says, and Ryan crosses the short distance between them and kisses him.

Brendon opens his mouth to protest, he does, he means to, but Ryan’s tongue is there, brushing against his bottom lip, and Brendon swallows the words in his throat. He drops his bag on the floor with a thud and Ryan’s hands are at his shoulders, pushing, and Brendon feels like he’ll fall over until he keeps going backwards, keeps going, and then he’s hit the wall, and Ryan is pressing against him, like he’s done this a thousand times before.

Brendon has never kissed another boy, never, but Ryan kisses like a boy and it’s obvious, it’s so obvious. Ryan’s crotch is on his, his body is warm and demanding, and his tongue is wet and hot and Brendon likes this, he _likes_ this, can’t believe that he does.

He lets himself fall into it, and his hands search for the proper hold, one hand on the small of Ryan’s back, pulling him closer, the other on the back of his neck, tugging on the short hairs there. Brendon moans, involuntarily, and Ryan kisses him harder, like that gave him permission.

“Fuck, fuck,” Ryan keeps saying, and Brendon doesn’t get it but he does, and it all falls together, all the pieces that he didn’t understand.

It doesn’t make sense, still, how much this is killing him, how much he’s been waiting for this but didn’t know it. Ryan is semi-hard and Brendon can _feel_ it and it fills him with a sense of urgency, a red-hot heat crawling up his back. Ryan’s hands are everywhere at once, it makes no sense, no goddamn sense.

When Ryan claws at his ass, Brendon breaks off from the kisses, and his mouth feels worn and swollen, and he fixes his eyes at a point just beyond Ryan’s shoulder. Ryan is mouthing at his neck, leaving wet kisses here and there, nibbling on his collarbone, and Brendon’s whole body comes to a stop.

Ryan pulls back, and Brendon says, “Um, I’m – not like this.” He keeps staring at Ryan’s lips, the slight pink to them, and he can’t look away, can’t figure out why he –

“Me neither,” Ryan says, and his eyes are dark, almost black, and Brendon inhales sharply, trying to figure this out, trying to make this work.

He’s aware of a million little sensations, the way Ryan’s thumb brushes a sliver of skin above Brendon’s ass, how hard he is, and _God_ , he’s hard, and Brendon is too, and he’s vaguely aware of it, in the small part of his brain that is trying to make sense of this.

“I’ve never,” Brendon says, and then he’s kissing Ryan again, and it feels good, it feels like something he doesn’t have to give a name, something small and hot and his. Ryan’s tongue is familiar and talented, like he’s done this so many times, kissed hundreds of boys, but he knows that can’t be true, he knows that this is a new sensation for both of them, something else entirely.

The kisses turn wet and deep and urgent and Brendon chases that, the sensations, the million prickles of want all up and down his arms, and he doesn’t get it, he doesn’t, the way the world slips away like this, and it’s simple, it is, it’s goddamn simple.

Ryan cups him suddenly, and Brendon rocks into it and that’s when it kicks in, the tiny, buried Mormon part of his brain, and he squirms away from it, from the touch. He doesn’t want to push Ryan off, but when he doesn’t get it right away, Brendon shoves him, pushing him back, and then it’s just Ryan staring at him, and the sun has gone down now below the buildings, the sky is a pale blue, the room full of washed-out light.

“I’m not,” Brendon says, and he can’t finish the sentence, because, because.

Ryan licks his lips and Brendon follows the movement, hates that he does, and he can feel the shame burning the back of his neck. He wants Ryan’s mouth back on his, crushing against him like a car crash, but he can’t, he’s not – he’s not. He’s not, he’s not.

“I’m.”

That’s as much as Ryan gets out.

They keep staring, and Brendon doesn’t know who’s winning. He doesn’t know if that’s the point. If winning was ever the point.

He slips his bag over his shoulder and doesn’t look back when the door slams shut.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well i think maybe this might end up being four parts, after all. forgive me for being shitty about consistency.

Quite simply, Brendon avoids Ryan the best he can.

It’s not easy to do that. They work together, they live in the same apartment building, and Ryan is always within constant reach. It’s not easy, but Brendon does it, because.

And he shows up to rehearsals on time every day, sometimes early, just to prove that he can. He practices his steps and doesn’t let himself get distracted. He doesn’t want to give Ryan an excuse to go off on him like the last time, and the last time did not end well. He doesn’t want to acknowledge Ryan at all, but that’s impossible, utterly fucking impossible.

He considers calling mom and dad. He really does. He considers moving back home and repenting for his sins, begging for forgiveness from the God he hadn’t been sure existed until That Night. He knew there had been a God, then, because he resisted temptation. There had to be some kind of reward for that. He began believing again.

Except it’s all a lie, all of it, and at the end of the day, he still thinks about Ryan, and when he does, he gets hard, like a reflex reaction. His body is wired, electrified, currents of energy running through his veins.

It would be easier if he believed in God still. He’d have a better excuse.

The truth is – the worst truth, really – is that he’s a fucking coward.

…

The tech rehearsals begin, which means actual stage time, actual memorization, because there’s only so little time before opening night. The show opens, they play every night for nearly two months, and then just like that, it’s over. Until they see how well it did.

It’s strange to him, to be so close to the end. He doesn’t feel underprepared, but the idea of being in front of an audience is something else entirely, something he doesn’t know how to name. He’s good at it. He knows he’s good at entertaining. Why would he be here if he wasn’t?

The tech rehearsals begin, and the end is ticking closer.

But the days are shorter, which means more sleep, more time to relax. More time not-calling his parents and not-thinking about Ryan’s skin and his body and the way it’s all within reach, all close enough to touch, but too far away. Too fucking far away.

Tech rehearsals also mean Jac is around a lot more, but this time she actually has a purpose. She’s been backstage in the dressing room, organizing costumes, testing out foundation, and Ryan seems pleased to have her around. As pleased as he can be, considering he still spends most of his time looking angry and sour. Brendon tries not to think about it. It’s not his business.

It’s not his business, but it feels like it is.

Audrey has been effectively not-talking about the Disastrous Night Out, and Brendon is grateful because, what, who can even remember that? Not him, definitely. It’s so insignificant, pales in comparison to recent developments, it doesn’t even matter. He doesn’t even think about it. It should bother him, but he’s too tired, too close to the end to care. He’ll deal with his fucking sexual identity crisis another time. He’s got bigger shit to deal with.

There are stage markers and cues, and Brendon practically has his lines so thoroughly memorized that it doesn’t feel like a script anymore, just words that are written on the walls of his brain, becoming as much of a part of him as his own natural vernacular. He finds himself repeating his lines under his breath in normal conversation, singing the lyrics in the shower, his feet moving to practiced choreography when he’s boiling water for his pasta.

He lives and fucking breathes this production. The last thing he needs is to worry about Ryan Ross. The _last_ thing.

And Ryan is not talking to him either, which is fine. They haven’t said a word about it to each other. Because, well, Brendon is not _like that_ , and maybe Ryan is, but Ryan doesn’t want to talk about it. He might not even be _like that_ either – it’s just restless energy and hormones and the way Ryan makes Brendon feel unsettled and challenged, and it manifested itself in something  strange and physical. He knows that Ryan would agree.

So he doesn’t think about it. He’s so busy not thinking about it that he forgets he’s not supposed to think about it at all.

…

On one of the early rehearsal days, Brendon is just leaving the building when he spots Ryan leaned against the brick, smoking a cigarette, alone. It’s the first time he’s seen him without the presence of a hundred other crew members, just alone, smoking languidly, peacefully. Brendon hesitates. This is not a good idea.

His body seems to betray that thought, of course, and he gravitates towards Ryan. Maybe this can be a good thing. He can prove that he can be Ryan’s friend, no complications. No one needs to read any deeper than that. “Hey.” He stops just a foot away, trying not to get too close.

Ryan casts a glance at him. He doesn’t look angry, but he’s not happy to see him either. Brendon isn’t surprised. He quirks a brow, reaching out for the cigarette, and Ryan grudgingly passes it. “Hi.”

Brendon has an excuse not to answer with the cigarette in his mouth, but still he says, “Early night tonight.” Trying to make small talk. He’s transparent as fuck, and Ryan can surely see it.

Still, Ryan says, “Yeah. It’ll be good to catch up on sleep.”

Brendon passes the cigarette back. “You’re heading home soon?”

He doesn’t mean for it to come out so surprised, he doesn’t mean for it to sound like he had been expecting anything different. They have a day off tomorrow, a full day without rehearsals, a reward of sorts for their diligence in putting the production together. Brendon had high plans to get drunk, but the more he stands here, passing a cigarette back and forth, the more he questions that idea. Maybe he should go home and get some sleep.

Ryan says, “Unless you’ve got a better idea.”

It’s not a better idea, but Brendon is desperate to prove that they can be friends, that there’s nothing going on underneath the surface. A kiss either way means nothing, nothing but skin on skin. Chicks kiss each other all the time and it doesn’t make them gay.

He doesn’t know why it matters so much. What he’s trying to prove, and to who. Himself, probably. Ryan has Jac. He doesn’t have to prove he likes pussy.

“Wanna get drunk and watch _Seinfeld_?” He fishes his own pack out of his pockets, shaking a cigarette out.

Ryan sputters laughter, like Brendon just said something utterly hilarious. Brendon eyes him blankly. Ryan laughs again, and says, “Oh, God, you were being serious.”

“ _Seinfeld_ is the best thing to drunk-watch,” Brendon says matter-of-factly. It isn’t a lie.

Ryan is looking at him carefully, his back flat against the wall, and his eyes are hooded as he looks down. Brendon always hated being short, and even though Ryan is barely a couple inches taller, he still feels looked down upon. Brendon fidgets, lighting his cigarette, trying to look nonchalant. He’s just proving a point.

“What are you trying to prove?” Ryan asks, and Brendon shrugs, like he’s not sure.

“We’re friends, aren’t we?” They weren’t friends before That Night, they weren’t even _close_ , but Brendon is hoping that maybe that’s all they needed to become friends. What’s a little kiss between friends? Nothing. Goddamn nothing.

Ryan stubs his cigarette out, grinding it into the concrete. After what feels like forever, he says, “Yeah, guess so.”

Brendon hails a cab, lifting a brow at Ryan, who shrugs indifferently. “ _Seinfeld_ it is.”

…

Brendon is three beers past drunk at this point, and he knows it was a bad idea to let Ryan buy the cheap kind. It’s settling in his stomach in a way that isn’t entirely pleasant, but not in the throwing up way, just in the unsettling way. Ryan looks fine. Ryan looks great, and Brendon is _not_ noticing.

“This show is too good.” Ryan’s laugh is in time with the laugh track, every time.

Brendon grins. “Only ‘cause you’re drunk. Sober, I couldn’t get through any of this.”

Ryan shakes his head. “I feel like I’d still love it sober.”

“Nope.” Brendon hasn’t gotten used to Ryan’s apartment yet, which he had insisted on, claiming that Brendon likely hasn’t done laundry lately. Not a lie. Not a fucking lie, but it still bothered Brendon that Ryan knew enough to assume.

The television is nice, way better than Brendon’s. He doesn’t complain. They’re sitting side by side on the couch, and Brendon’s legs are folded, his knees colliding with Ryan’s every time they laugh or shift, and this is fine. This is what friends do. They are friends. They are friends and it doesn’t mean anything.

The third episode ends, and it’s quiet. Ryan is a coherent drunk. He still talks in monosyllables, but there’s laughter behind his words now, and it feels lighter. It feels good. Brendon feels good.

By the time the fourth episode begins, Brendon is beginning to wonder if he’s drunk enough to initiate a kiss and get away with it. It sounds like a fantastic idea, a beautiful idea. He literally could not think of a better idea, try as he might.

By the time the fourth episode ends, Brendon is straddling Ryan on the couch, his hands up his shirt, trying to kiss him breathless, and it’s working, it’s fucking _working_ , because Ryan isn’t objecting, and the tiny part of Brendon’s tiny Mormon brain isn’t objecting either. If God were here right now, he would high-five him.

Ryan flips them over on the narrow space and Brendon likes this too, and it’s insane how good this feels. He wonders how he ever thought he could go without this. They were friends, damn it, but it didn’t matter, it didn’t matter at all, because they could be those kinds of friends, and no one would know. No one would have to know.

Their tongues meet and Ryan tastes like beer and cigarettes and some sweet underlying taste, and Brendon chases that taste, keeps rising up to meet his kisses, wanting to figure out what that taste is. But maybe it’s just Ryan, maybe it’s just how he tastes, and something about that is getting Brendon hard, and he stops to consider, maybe, but it doesn’t take long to figure it out.

“Are you drunk?” Brendon pants in the air between them, and Ryan answers by cupping Brendon’s cock, and God, _God,_ he’s hard. He knew that, he felt it, but it’s just now registering.

Brendon says, “Wait, wait, I wanna,” and then he’s palming at Ryan’s cock and Ryan is biting his lip and Brendon wants, _wants –_

Ryan breathes out harshly, and he’s drunk, Brendon can tell by the flush of his cheeks, the slowness of his movements, and he doesn’t know why, but he thinks he’d like it better if Ryan were sober. If Brendon were sober, too.

He doesn’t stop to consider.

Ryan leans back on the couch, lets Brendon straddle him again, and Brendon’s fingers are on his zipper, and he doesn’t stop, he doesn’t think, he doesn’t need –

“Brendon,” Ryan rushes out, and that’s okay, that’s okay, he can handle that. God doesn’t have the time to judge him. God has better shit to do.

Brendon tries to tug Ryan’s jeans down to his knees, but he only manages mid-thigh, and that’s fine, that’s fine too. He’s never done this to anyone but himself but it makes it better, somehow, and he’s clumsy and drunk but Ryan doesn’t care, and he still hisses appreciatively when Brendon’s hand slips inside of his briefs and starts stroking him.

“I want to,” Brendon says, and he doesn’t finish it, because Ryan is shoving his underwear down, anything to give more, more of himself, and Brendon is staring straight at Ryan’s cock.

It’s a beautiful cock, a good size, rock hard and sensitive to the touch. There’s a drop of pre-come on the slit, and Brendon can’t stop staring. Ryan is beautiful. Brendon doesn’t know how to say that, and doesn’t think he should, anyway. Friends keep those comments to themselves. Brendon keeps stroking, watching with some fascination the way Ryan shudders, the way his breath hitches, the way he bites his lip.

“I want to,” Brendon repeats, and Ryan’s hand goes into his hair when Brendon lowers his mouth on his cock.

The first tentative lick has Ryan arching off the couch from the unexpected heat. Brendon likes that, likes watching him move like that, and he’s a little drunk but this is sobering him up, this is sobering enough. He lowers his mouth again, curling his tongue around the head, enjoying the way Ryan’s fingers tighten in his hair, the way he chokes out swear words, his muscles quivering as he struggles to keep his hips from lifting.

Brendon licks up a wet trail and slips his mouth over the head of Ryan’s cock, unable to help the noise that comes from the back of his throat and vibrates around his mouth. Ryan keeps swearing, mumbling nonsense, and Brendon curls his fingers around the base of his cock, trying to take more of him into his mouth.

“Fuck, fuck, _fuck,_ ” Ryan whispers, his voice hoarse. Somewhere in the back of his mind Brendon’s aware that this is happening out of context, and there are consequences, there always are. Brendon wills himself to forget. He hollows his cheeks, sucking hard, and Ryan keeps crying out, and in the empty apartment, it feels like Ryan is singing just for him.

Brendon’s lips meet his fist and his eyes are watering and he’s vaguely aware that he should stop now, but Ryan’s hips are jerking, and Brendon can’t get enough of watching that, can’t get enough –

“I’m gonna,” Ryan says, and Brendon digs his nails into Ryan’s hips as he comes, his back arching, his muscles quivering, wordless groans dropping from his mouth, and Brendon lets him, doesn’t complain.

Brendon lets go of Ryan’s hips, marveling at the half-moon marks his blunt nails made, pulling off his cock and licking his lips. He can still taste him, the bitter, acidic taste that went straight to his balls and made them ache. He’s painfully hard, his cock straining against his jeans, but Brendon can’t take his eyes off of Ryan, can’t stop watching him.

He wants to kiss him, so he decides to kiss him. Brendon moves back over him, hovering, kissing him over and over, trying to steal his breath from him and make it his own. Ryan’s tongue pushes in to meet his, and Ryan groans, and Brendon is so fucking _hard_ –

“Did you want me to, um.” Ryan is trying hard to articulate words, but he’s a little drunk and dizzy from coming, and Brendon can tell, so he doesn’t let him continue, just shakes his head, kisses him again and again.

“I’m okay,” he whispers, because he is, because that had been enough. That’s enough.

“You’re –“ Ryan starts, then stops, and Brendon keeps kissing him, can’t stop, can’t – “God, you’re –“

Brendon doesn’t want to hear it. He keeps kissing him until the words die in his throat, wondering what this would be like sober, and then knowing, quietly, this could not happen sober. God would find him. God has a way of doing that.

Still, Brendon kisses Ryan, keeps kissing him until his pulse picks up and he’s hard enough for it to hurt. Ryan’s eyelids keep falling closed, and even when he squirms against Brendon, it’s halfhearted and tired. The alcohol and the exhaustion from the rehearsals, no doubt. Brendon presses a chaste kiss to the corner of Ryan’s mouth.

By the time Brendon closes the door to Ryan’s apartment, heading down the hallway to his own, Ryan’s breath is rising and falling in even steeps. It feels strange, leaving him behind, but it would’ve been stranger to watch him sleep.

Brendon gets two feet in the door before he’s scrambling to release his cock from his jeans, and it’s the quickest he’s ever come, his fingers squeezing burning flesh, quick, hard strokes that made his toes curl and his body respond accordingly. He’s coming too quickly, his body doubling over, and when he’s done he slumps against the wall and listens to the sound of his fan lulling him to sleep. He needs to stop treating his dick like this.

He wills himself to forget about consequences.

He can still hear the laugh track.

…

It takes Brendon a second, when he first wakes up, and maybe a small part of him that hoped that he wouldn’t remember, but he does, of course. Of course he does.

The first thing he does is retreat, like he’s given up the fight, and he has. He calls Patrick and he picks up on the fourth ring, saying, “Hey, man.”

Brendon chews on his lip. “You got lunch?” He needs to get out of his apartment building, out out _out_ because Ryan is _here_ , just a few doors down, and if he’s here and Brendon’s here, there will be consequences. Brendon doesn’t care that he’s running away, doesn’t care that it’s obvious, doesn’t care.

Patrick must notice the urgency in his tone because he says, “Um.” There’s rustling on the other end and then he’s saying, “Yeah, sure. Come on over.”

Brendon feels practically aching with relief. He makes it out of the apartment and the building with no incident, and he’s _not_ looking at Ryan’s door, wondering if he’s woken up, wondering what he’s doing, if he has similar plans to avoid Brendon and act like nothing happened.

He doesn’t know how he feels about that. He wants to pretend it didn’t happen but it would feel like an insult of Ryan did the same. It should matter. It _should_.

Patrick looks like he’s just woken up when the door swings open, and maybe he has, but Brendon is thankful. “You look like garbage,” Patrick says with his usual friendly smile, and he has a face like the kind of person Brendon could talk to about anything.

So Brendon says, “I hooked up with my musical director last night.” It all comes out in a weird rush, and he doesn’t like the way it sounds when he says it out loud.

Patrick closes the door behind him.

“That was a dumb move,” he comments, but then he says, “Was she at least cute?”

Brendon doesn’t know how to answer that, so he just sort of looks at Patrick, and maybe it’s written all over his face, maybe Patrick is just that much of a mom, but suddenly he’s exhaling softly and saying, “ _Oh,”_ over and over again.

“I didn’t sign up for a gay crisis,” Brendon mutters, and Patrick laughs at him, actually _laughs_ , and it feels like an insult. “It’s not funny.”

“It is,” Patrick assures him. He laughs some more, and Brendon’s ears feel hot. Patrick gives his shoulder a squeeze and says, “I’m pretty sure your issue isn’t that he’s a guy. Your issue is that he’s your boss. Sort of.”

Brendon doesn’t say anything to that, because it’s mostly true and he doesn’t want Patrick to be right. Still, he says, “Both are bad,” which isn’t a lie. He’s not gay, and he’s not down with sleeping with someone who is supposed to be in charge of him. He’s never been that kind of desperate.

And Ryan doesn’t even _like_ him. Ryan has made it perfectly clear. Brendon doesn’t even understand why Ryan is showing any interest at all, and fine, there’s a fine line sometimes, but this is different. Brendon doesn’t want anything to do with this type of complicated. He has more important stuff to worry about.

Like the _production_.

Brendon sinks his head into his hands and Patrick sighs, twisting the cap off a beer and sliding it over to him. Brendon takes it gratefully, glad to give his mouth and his hands something to do, because he doesn’t want to talk about this anymore.

Instead, Patrick says, “Did you call them yet?”

Brendon tenses, and this is something he doesn’t want to talk about either. At least it’s better. He says, “No.” He doesn’t want to elaborate, but Patrick looks like he’s about to interject, so he rushes in with, “My dad called.”

Patrick’s face lights up. Brendon doesn’t know why he cares so much. Patrick always wants the world to work out, even when it’s obvious that the world has different plans. “That’s good, that’s great! How did he react when he heard?”

Brendon is reliving the conversation again, and this time, not in a good way. He swallows thickly, trying to remember. “He, uh.” Brendon takes a second, sips his beer, trying to figure out how to word this. “He wants me to come home, still. Says that the community needs me. I don’t belong here. All the typical shit.”

Patrick looks disappointed and angry, like a kid who just found out Santa didn’t exist. “That’s shitty.” He breathes it out like he still can’t believe.

Brendon nods. “He’s shitty.”

“Well.” Patrick pauses. “You’re going to do way better here than you would down there.”

He says it with some finality, like it’s an actual fact. Brendon is glad to have him around, glad to have someone who believes in him wholeheartedly even when he fucks up. He realizes now that he _has_  fucked up. He can’t – he can’t even _look_ at Ryan in that way when Ryan is supposed to be _teaching_ him. Ryan is older, he should know better, but Brendon isn’t an idiot. He needs to know better, too.

“I know,” Brendon says, like he does know. And maybe, maybe underneath the surface, he knows it with the same finality and assuredness that Patrick does. He finishes his beer, glancing up at the clock, and he says, “I fucked up.”

Patrick tilts his head, and Brendon is reminded of a Labrador. “A little bit.”

At least Patrick is honest.

…

It’s a week before opening night, and Brendon is not talking to Ryan, or looking at him, or thinking about him.

That last part is a lie, because Brendon _does_ think about him, but he struggles not to, he doesn’t _want_ to, and that’s really what counts, in the end. The effort is what makes a difference.

They don’t talk about it because there’s nothing to talk about. There’s nothing to say. Brendon is less worried about God smiting him and more worried about losing focus of the production, forgetting his lines, forgetting his steps. So maybe God has better shit to do, but Brendon doesn’t, and he has to pretend nothing happened and go back to normal.

Ryan seems to be happy with this, and Brendon is _not_ noticing that he and Jac seem to be closer. He’s _not_. Jac has just been around a lot more, now that she has a reason to be, and Brendon is not noticing.

“Brendon.”

Audrey’s voice snaps him into focus. He blinks at her, trying to remember what she was saying. “Uh.”

Audrey is smiling at him but she looks tightly wound and annoyed, and God, he wishes he could just go back to when his biggest worry was whether or not she was into him. He couldn’t care less now, and that’s a problem, he knows it.

“You never pay attention,” she says, and he shrugs, indifferent. “I was asking if you’re hanging out with us after we finish on opening night. Cast and crew, my house. Free liquor.”

Brendon winces inwardly at the idea of having an alcohol in his system when Ryan is around. Not a good idea, he’s learned, but Audrey keeps looking at him expectantly, and really, it’s almost unfair of him to say no, isn’t it?

Brendon keeps glancing Ryan’s way, and maybe a part of him is hoping Ryan will look back, maybe a part of him is hoping that Ryan isn’t as unaffected as he seems. The memory is still fresh. Brendon had jerked off to it this morning in the shower, trying not to, ultimately losing.

He says, “Yeah, sure. Sounds fun.”

Ryan isn’t looking his way. It doesn’t bother him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so maybe this is gonna be like. five parts? instead of four? yeah im trash sorry

On his last day off before opening night, Brendon’s mom calls, and he almost doesn’t answer. He stares at the number for a while, trying to figure out _why_ , and then against all his better judgment, he answers with a calm, “Hi.”

He’s surprised at himself at how clean and clear his voice comes, like it doesn’t reduce him to a shivering mess of a kid again to talk to his mom. He’s in the laundry room, and the rhythmic sounds of the washers and dryers are somehow comforting, and for a long while he thinks maybe his mom has said something but it had been drowned out in the noise.

But then her voice comes, and he can tell she’s been crying, and that makes something horrific and shitty build like a ball of panic in him. He wills himself to ignore it. “Hi, baby.”

Brendon doesn’t want to admit it, but he’s _missed_ her, and fuck, he’s missed being a kid again, too, enough for his heart to swell and shrink all at once at her old pet name for him. He swallows the lump in his throat and waits for her to talk because _God_ , he’s not going to. He doesn’t have anything to fucking say to –

“Your, ah.” Brendon can’t remember the last time she’s sounded so hesitant before. He remembers his mother has a force of nature, tearing down everything in her path on the ever-righteous road to eternal life. She clears her throat and continues, “Your father told me about – you got a part. He said. He said you got a part.”

The anger suddenly dissolves like it had never been there, and Brendon feels a fresh wave of longing. He leans back against his dryer, feeling jittery and nervous. _Nervous._

“Um,” he starts, and then stops. “I.” He takes in a breath and stares at a chip in the paint on the other side of the cramped room. “Yeah, I did. I got the _lead._ ” He can’t help himself and lets the pride seep into his tone, and he reminds himself all over again of being eleven years old, saying grace over their dinner, and the plaque on the wall that reads the seven deadly sins, and _pride_ , but he’s _proud_ , he deserves to be, he thinks, and it’s not a sin to be proud. It shouldn’t be a sin to be proud.

There’s a shaking, shuddery intake of breath on the other line, and Brendon tenses. He doesn’t expect it, when it comes, his mother whispering, “Oh, honey, that’s –“ She pauses and Brendon waits, patiently. “That’s _wonderful_. It really is.”

Brendon eyes go misty and he wipes them at the corners, quickly, trying to save face even when no one can see him, even in the empty laundry room in his shitty apartment complex. “Yeah?” He’s relieved that his voice doesn’t shake.

On the other line, his mom seems to breathe properly, and he can _hear_ the smile in her voice. “I would love… we would love, your father and I, to see you. We would – we would really –“

“Yeah,” Brendon cuts her off, too quickly, but he doesn’t want to hear her cry anymore, so he continues, “yeah, you should. Please.” He doesn’t notice if his hands are shaking. There’s a warm feeling in the pit of his stomach, heat crawling through his skin in a good way for the first time, and he doesn’t –

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t being supportive –“

“It’s okay,” Brendon rushes out, because it is, because it is okay now. It can be. It can be okay. “It’s okay, fuck –“

“Language,” she admonishes out of old habit, but then she laughs, and Brendon doesn’t quite get the weak feeling in his knees. Like this is something he had wanted but never dared asked for.

“You should…” Brendon pauses and then laughs, and he doesn’t know what’s so funny. “You should come, um – opening night is Friday.” He realizes too late that it’s only a few days away, and then he says, all at once, “Oh, shi – that’s too soon, do you want to –“

“We’ll figure it out,” she interrupts, and Brendon knows he’s getting that way again, all nervous and excited and loud, his thoughts jumbling together and his mouth blurting the words before he has time to process them, and for some reason the familiarity of it all is making his heart ache.

“Yeah.” Brendon nods, then feels dumb, forgetting she can’t see him. “Yeah, maybe – next week, or something.”

“Or something,” she agrees, and there’s the smile behind her words again, and Brendon suddenly forgives her. He forgives her, he does, and that warm feeling keeps spreading through him. He feels like he can do fucking _anything_.

So he begins to tell her all about the play, all about the plotline, the protagonist-turned-antagonist lawyer character he’s playing, some shady type who cheats on his wife and lets criminals walk free, until he becomes a criminal himself, and then the wife, the angry, disgraced wife – she kills him, cyanide poison in his drink, and then she becomes the focus point, and he tells his mother about Audrey and Gabe and barely skips over Ryan’s presence until she tells him he’s been rambling for nearly twenty minutes.

Brendon ducks his head just as the timer on his dryer goes off, and he rubs his eyes with the back of his hand, feeling young and stupid and deliriously happy, and _fuck_. “Sorry, sorry,” he laughs, and feels crazy to be laughing, but he’s _missed_ talking to her, without the tension. “I have to go, anyways.” He almost feels reluctant to get off the phone, but the real world beckons him, wants him back. And he’ll see her soon, he realizes, the thought a foreign concept. He’ll see her soon.

On the other side of the fucking world, in Mormon paradise sixty miles outside of Salt Lake City, Brendon’s mother laughs, and it sounds genuine, it sounds real, and she says, “I love you,” and Brendon’s world gets smaller, smaller, smaller, until maybe he could reach out and touch her and hug her again, all he had to do was forgive.

“I love you, too.”

And he does.

…

Brendon is nervous, he’s _nervous,_ fuck, but he’s reminding himself over and over again that he was chosen for a reason, he was hired for a reason. He was hired because he is good. He is good at this, at entertaining, and he’s been preparing himself for this for _weeks_.

Six hours a day, six days a week, and then more for tech rehearsals, and still he stands there next to Audrey, feeling like he’s a kid at a fucking talent show.

“Calm down,” Audrey says, places a hand on Brendon’s jittering knee. He hadn’t even noticed.

Brendon flinches when Jac goes to apply a cold smear of makeup to one side of his face, covering up the evidence that he’s not much more than a teenager. “I’m calm,” he says, and it’s mostly true. Stage nerves, he used to read about, from people who said they were good, kept him on his toes. Kept him focused.

“Stay still.” Jac bites her lip as she applies more to the left side of his nose. “You’re lucky I’m here to make you beautiful.”

Brendon laughs despite himself, feeling some tension lift from his shoulders. Audrey already looks perfect, but it’s not her scene, anyway, it’s not her place to shine.

“Opening night is always the worst,” Audrey assures him, and Brendon doesn’t want to feel like a reassured child, like a kid who had a nightmare, but her words have a soothing effect on him anyways.

By the time they’re ready to go on, Brendon feels like there’s a mask of makeup on his face, like it’s not even him up there, just a character. And that’s what he needs to be, he realizes, and that makes him calm even more, like he’s not there, he’s not there. It’s not him.

“Ready?” Audrey’s teeth flash white as the lights go down, and Brendon nods, feeling like something more than human. Something more than alive.

“Yeah.” He surprises himself to be telling the truth.

Audrey takes his hand, and there’s their cue.

… … …

It’s the fourth toast that’s been made, a clamor of champagne in thin glasses and loud voices talking all at once, and someone who is a couple drinks into tipsy is giggling, “Okay, okay, wait – I want to toast to –“

Brendon tunes it all out, disappearing to the fire escape after the first toast, after his first glass of champagne, because he doesn’t feel like getting drunk tonight. The exhilaration is still flooding through him, a better high than he could get from anything else, and his hands are still shaking. He doesn’t want anyone to know how affected he is.

Outside, the night air is warm, the city blooming below him, full of movement and light and distant sound. He blinks down a little hazily, trying to catch up with his thoughts. Laughter bubbles from behind him, the cracked windows, the cast and crew celebrating a successful night.

The show went well. After, Audrey had launched herself into his arms, all bright eyes and smile, and she’d said, “You’re a fucking star, Urie.”

Brendon looks up at the sky and can’t see a single star up there.

He becomes aware of someone else’s presence after a little while, and he doesn’t know how long he’s been out there, leaning against the railing and staring down, down, down. The window slides open and Ryan’s voice says, “Hey,” softly, like trying not to disturb Brendon’s peace.

Brendon doesn’t feel the usual tension in his shoulders at the sound of Ryan’s voice, and maybe it’s because he’s not afraid of him anymore. “Hi.” He sucks in a breath and doesn’t turn around.

Ryan leans next to him, following his gaze to the sprawling pavement below. There’s a silence for a moment, but then Ryan says, “Not drinking tonight?”

Brendon shrugs one shoulder. “I don’t need to.”

Ryan laughs, a short, breathless sound. “Fair enough.” Brendon can’t smell any alcohol on him, either, and Ryan looks as composed as ever in Brendon’s peripheral. The silence is calm, easy, like nothing has ever been with Ryan, and now Brendon’s getting confused, but he doesn’t have it in him to ask.

Ryan’s shoulder is brushing Brendon’s, and with every breath Brendon feels light-headed. He doesn’t want to _think_ about it, but he does, of course he does. They’d been ignoring each other up until now, carefully avoiding one another, pretending that they didn’t know the things they knew, and it had worked. It had worked, except it hadn’t, and Brendon knows better now.

“My parents are coming to a show next week,” he says, just to break the silence, and he doesn’t care that he sounds like a kid now, he can’t find it in him to be bothered. “They’re really excited.”

“Yeah?” Ryan sounds genuinely interested, and that’s not something Brendon had expected. He steals a glance at him out of the corner of his eye, and Ryan is fiddling with his lighter, still staring straight ahead, as if he’s dutifully avoiding Brendon’s eyes.

“Yeah.”

The silence falls over them again, and fuck, Brendon is starting to wonder why Ryan is even here, why Ryan has even bothered, when finally Ryan shifts to look at him.

Brendon catches his gaze, meets it levelly. “Did you want to talk about it?”

Ryan’s lips are slightly pink, and his tongue darts out to wet them, quickly, like he’s not aware of it, but Brendon’s eyes follow it anyway. “Did you?”

Brendon shakes his head, imperceptibly, trying not to stare. “No.”

“Okay.”

Ryan doesn’t stop Brendon when his hand curls around his jutting hipbone, doesn’t stop him at all, and Brendon can’t remember why he thought this was a bad idea. Still, he doesn’t move forward, doesn’t close the distance, and Ryan’s breath hitches slightly, barely noticeably.

He says, “You were good tonight.”

Brendon breathes in deeply. “You think?” He knows he did well. He knows it, but he wants to hear it from Ryan, wants to hear it because he wants to believe that Ryan was just bullshitting him before. He’s wanted to prove Ryan wrong about him from the beginning.

Ryan shifts closer, like the space between them had been too much, and his breath is hot and close when he whispers, “You were _incredible._ ”

Brendon hates that he’s not unaffected by the close proximity, hates how obvious he is, and the blood swimming in his brain floods straight down to his cock and fuck, yeah, he’s so _obvious._ Still, he doesn’t rise to the challenge, doesn’t lean forward.

“Was I?” His thumb presses hard into Ryan’s hipbone, and he doesn’t know what he’s trying to prove here, doesn’t know what he wants Ryan to say.

It’s killing him to remain still when Ryan moves closer, closer still, and he expects the distance to disappear altogether, closes his eyes to anticipate the contact of Ryan’s lips on his own, but it doesn’t come. His eyes flutter open and Ryan is close, closer than Brendon’s ever seen him, and his nose just barely brushes against Brendon’s, a hairbreadth of space between them. Brendon _yearns_ , and he doesn’t get it, doesn’t understand why Ryan doesn’t just –

“You were fucking _amazing._ ” There’s thick hunger in his words and his voice and Brendon’s breath hitches.

Brendon doesn’t think, just closes the short space, crushes himself against Ryan and he knows this is what gets people into trouble, but _fuck_. Ryan is warm and pliant and his mouth opens easily, like he knew, like he had just been waiting. His tongue is hot and wet and demanding, coaxing Brendon’s mouth open, his hands at his shoulders.

There’s that part of Brendon’s brain that short-circuits at the thought of sinning, at the thought of disobeying God, but it’s been quieter now lately, like talking to his mom is what he needed to move on, to get over himself. It’s quieting down now, barely making a sound when Brendon’s mouth opens and _God,_ yes, Ryan’s mouth and his mouth and their tongues pressing together in a wet slide.

Brendon’s hands slip to the small of Ryan’s back, and he digs in with short nails, wondering if he could leave imprints there, wondering if Ryan would let him. Ryan chokes on his breath, and his breathing is stuttering like an engine, and Brendon doesn’t want to stop, doesn’t want to –

Ryan breaks the kiss and shoves their foreheads together and Brendon is, fuck, _panting_ , like a fucking bitch in heat, but he doesn’t _care_ , he just wants Ryan’s mouth back and his hands and he doesn’t want to think about anything else.

“Wait, wait,” Ryan is mumbling, his voice soft and rough all at once, like it’s being ripped from the back of his throat.

Brendon is impatient, and he punctuates this with a twist of his hips, letting Ryan feel how hard he is, and the friction is almost too much, but it does its job. Ryan’s breath falters and he claws at Brendon’s back with both hands, and Brendon is glad that he’s not alone, that this is killing him too.

“What, what do you –“

“You can’t –“ Ryan is breathing hard and fast, and Brendon can feel him, can feel how hard he is. “You can’t disappear after.”

Brendon lets the reality of it wash over him for a second and he doesn’t flinch at all, doesn’t move away, and there’s still vibration thrumming in his fingers, and he still wants, wants, _wants_. He nods, dumbly, like Ryan wants him to, and he’s not, he’s not planning on disappearing. He thinks back to the times before, and yes, he realizes, he had run off and not said a word and left Ryan to stand alone, wake up alone, still barely tracing the hazy memories, his taste still somewhere on his tongue, and Brendon feels suddenly very guilty.

It doesn’t last long, because Ryan is kissing him again, and his tongue is pushing against Brendon’s with insistent hunger, like he’s been waiting, and Brendon knows the feeling, knows it because he’s been waiting too. Waiting without realizing it at all.

Ryan’s grip loosens from Brendon’s shoulders and his hands slide down, down, and Brendon chokes on air when Ryan gracelessly cups his ass through his jeans. Brendon can’t help himself, and a moan escapes, swallowed by Ryan’s mouth still hovering over his, their lips barely touching, still soft and wet brushing against each other.

“God.” Ryan’s voice is full of disbelief and something else, something darker. “God, you were fucking _amazing_ , fucking perfect, _Jesus_ –“

“Tell me,” Brendon whispers, and he hates that he wants to hear this.

Ryan’s lips move to Brendon’s neck, and his teeth are there too, just enough for Brendon to notice. He drags his tongue up the side, nipping at the hollow of Brendon’s throat, inhaling at Brendon’s collarbone. His voice is hot and thick with want, and he groans, “Couldn’t take my eyes off you.”

Brendon thinks about Ryan watching from offstage, thinks about Ryan not being able to look away from him. “Fuck.” He lifts his hands into Ryan’s hair, pulling Ryan away from his neck before he can get working on a serious bruise, licking into his mouth with unpracticed intent. Ryan makes a muffled noise against Brendon’s lips and sinks into it.

It feels like hours later but it must’ve been only minutes when Ryan is impatiently tugging at the hem of Brendon’s shirt and Brendon tries to catch up, thinking about what he’s done with girls before, what he’s liked. The metal railing digs into his back as Ryan pushes him against it, and he’s vaguely aware this is a bad place to be doing this, whatever it is they’ll be doing, and Brendon’s stomach flares at the thought.

“We should –“ Brendon barely gets a word in before Ryan’s pressing the heel of his palm to Brendon’s cock, and he lets out a sigh of contentment. “We – we should go inside.”

The words bring Ryan back to focus and he pulls back, and Brendon gets the full view of his face, his reddened lips in the darkness, his wide eyes, mussed hair. Brendon’s insides burn hotly and there isn’t a fucking thing he doesn’t want Ryan to do to him, and the thought is heady, filling him up, and he can hardly breathe thinking about it.

Ryan says, “Do you want to – my place?” and Brendon resurfaces to reality.

There’s a moment of hesitation, because Brendon can’t imagine _not_ touching Ryan, can’t imagine keeping his hands to himself, and the last thing he can bear is a taxi ride to the apartment complex, the last thing he can handle is having silence between them and time to think about what was happening, what would happen. Brendon doesn’t want this to stop, doesn’t want to stop kissing Ryan, and fuck, he doesn’t care what that makes him, if it makes him gay. He doesn’t _care_ , but he’s worried, of course he’s worried, fuck, he’ll have time to think, and he doesn’t want to think. Doesn’t want to think about this at all, just wants to _act_.

But Brendon doesn’t know how to voice all that, how to explain, and he already said he wouldn’t disappear. He said he wouldn’t, and he’s not going to break that, not for anything. Ryan’s thumbs are circling tiny patterns around Brendon’s shoulder blades and no, no, this is not the right place.

Beyond their bubble, there’s laughter and cheering and beer and wine flowing in the warmth of the apartment, but Brendon can only see Ryan, can only feel him, and everything else is distant, out of place.

He breathes in deep, tries to discern Ryan’s smell, his taste, but can’t figure it out. “Okay.” He presses another kiss to the corner of Ryan’s mouth, feeling hungry and dazed and stupid. “Okay,” he repeats, and lets Ryan drag him downstairs, past the flurry of guests rushing to say goodbye, onto the pavement, into the cab.

Brendon tries not to think, squeezes his eyes shut, and the thing is, after a while, it gets easier to not think at all, and maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe that means Brendon’s brain isn’t going to totally fuck him over this time, the little religious section of it telling him to stop, _wrong, sin_. Ryan doesn’t appear to have any doubts at all, and in the cab his fingers splay across Brendon’s thighs, like it’s nothing, like they’re desperate kids.

Brendon has barely had more than a sip of alcohol and yet he feels drunk, ridiculously and deliriously giddy, like he’s breaking the rules. And he is, he is, he knows that he is, and it’s enough to keep him hard, to keep him excited. A joy ride from God. A fucking vacation.

The walk up the stairs is excruciatingly slow, and Brendon wonders what’s stopping him from shoving Ryan back against the wall and kissing him and touching him, wonders what’s been stopping him from doing that all along.

Two steps into Ryan’s apartment and Ryan has Brendon pushed against the door, and every fucking touch feels sinful and beautiful. Ryan shoves Brendon’s shirt up, ducking his head to kiss his chest, his tongue sliding across his ribcage, circling a nipple, his hands leaving burning hot flesh in their wake. Brendon fights the shirt off, tossing it haphazardly towards the couch. He watches Ryan with rapt attention, and he finds himself unable to suppress little moans of encouragement. He’s been waiting for this, _fuck_. He’s been _waiting_.

Ryan is still fully-clothed and Brendon feels incredibly naked in contrast, but something about that is perfect, like Ryan has all the control, and Brendon shivers despite himself. He doesn’t want to analyze it, doesn’t want to think too much.

Ryan’s hands are at his belt, unbuckling quickly and fuck, _fuck_ , he’s shaking, his hands are shaking, and Brendon forgets that Ryan hasn’t done this before. Maybe Ryan is just as nervous as Brendon, but he doesn’t let it show, doesn’t give Brendon the satisfaction. He gets Brendon’s pants down to mid-thigh, sliding his hands over Brendon’s boxer briefs and tugging them until his cock springs free.

Brendon pulls Ryan up without thinking. He kisses Ryan, full and hard with dark intent, and tries to unbutton his dress shirt. His hands are shaking too, he realizes, and it’s almost impossible to get the shirt off, so Brendon just starts tugging and tearing until the buttons come flying off in different directions and Ryan’s bare chest is against his.

Brendon’s stomach drops when Ryan’s fingers wrap around his cock. He can’t help but rock into the touch, thrusting forward. He’s worried he’ll come right there, and that’s not a good idea, that’s not the way he wants this to go.

Ryan’s dress slacks end up down to his knees, and Brendon’s own hand snakes around to grab Ryan’s cock. The reaction is almost immediate, Ryan slumping forward and breathing shakily into the crook of Brendon’s neck, his hips shoving forwards without aim.

“I want to –“ Ryan chokes, his breath shuddering, and he doesn’t get to finish.

Brendon keeps running his fingers over the warm flesh, just as mesmerized as he was the first time. He doesn’t know where the words come from but suddenly his lips are on the shell of Ryan’s ear, and his breath is coming out in short gasps, and he says, “I want you to fuck me.”

Ryan inhales sharply. “You want me to –“

“ _Please._ ”

The noise that tears from Ryan’s throat isn’t a word or anything, and Brendon wants to figure this out, wants to – but then Ryan’s hands are grabbing at his shoulders, pushing and pulling until Brendon is turned around, and they’re kissing, wet and sloppy and unrefined, as Ryan guides them to the bedroom. There’s a weak thrill of fear spiking up in his chest, because he doesn’t _know_ these things, doesn’t know how this is supposed to go.

And maybe Ryan doesn’t, either, but he’s not about to show it, and he looks assured, confident. Brendon steps out of his shoes, struggling to shove his pants all the way down, and Ryan’s are at his ankles. It’s all urgent and too fast, like they have to get it over with before the rest of the world catches up, and it makes him feel like there isn’t enough time.

The back of his knees hit a mattress and he’s already falling before he has time to register it, and Ryan falls with him, a heavy weight on Brendon’s chest that knocks the breath out of him.

There’s a moment, then, a short moment where they both stop moving and Ryan is straddling Brendon’s hips, his hands on Brendon’s chest, and both their pants are discarded onto the floor. There’s only a faint yellow glow coming from the hallway, a thin slice of light landing on Ryan’s chest. Brendon struggles to breathe properly.

Brendon lifts his hands to grab Ryan’s hips, searching for a hold. “Do you have…” He trails off, not quite sure what he’s asking.

But Ryan says, “Yeah, yeah,” and reaches for the lamp on the side-table. With a click, light floods into the room, and Brendon can see Ryan perfectly for the first time, his cock flushed and curved upwards. Brendon loses his breath all at once. Fuck.

Ryan fumbles around in the top drawer for a second and then grunts, retrieving a small bottle of lotion and a familiar foil wrapper. He shifts, and his cock brushes against Brendon’s, making Brendon groan involuntarily. Ryan stares down at him, and _fuck_ , he looks beautiful now, in the light, and Brendon doesn’t know why he hadn’t noticed before.

“Have you ever –“ Ryan stops, and maybe it’s because it’s obvious, it must be, but Brendon still shakes his head.

“No.” He pauses, wetting his lips, watching the way Ryan’s eyes follow the movement, the way his pupils go wide and dark. “Have you?”

Ryan leans down to kiss Brendon’s throat, leaving a wet trail of saliva as his mouth and tongue work their way down his body. Blood rushes in all directions and he feels dizzy off the attention. He barely hears it when Ryan says, “Not exactly,” and doesn’t press the issue, doesn’t try to speak because even thinking is difficult.

Brendon still manages a breathy, “Oh,” and then shuts his mouth, arching up into Ryan’s touch, trying to focus on the little sensations. Ryan’s mouth is hot, unbearably so, and Brendon can feel every touch like fire against his skin. Ryan keeps going lower and lower, pausing contemplatively over Brendon’s pubic hair, kissing there, then –

Brendon jerks at the unexpected sensation of Ryan’s mouth on his cock. Ryan is pressing his tongue flat against the tip, suckling absently. Brendon stifles a sound in his throat that could be a whimper, squeezing his eyes shut.

Ryan doesn’t stay there for long, his soft, damp lips trailing down the underside of Brendon’s cock. Brendon can feel every nerve electrified, every part of his body wired. Ryan drags his tongue over Brendon’s balls in a short motion, going lower.

Ryan’s pushing his hips up, practically doubling him over, and Brendon lets him, doesn’t think about it, like it’s not even his body anymore. Ryan’s tongue is teasing on the skin below his balls, and Brendon keeps staring at the ceiling, trying not to lose it completely.

He expects Ryan to stop there, he really does, but he doesn’t object still when Ryan goes further. There’s a brief moment where Ryan stops, his breath coming in short puffs against Brendon’s skin, and then Brendon jerks up, forcing back a slutty whine, when Ryan’s tongue licks over his hole.

Brendon’s eyes squeeze shut. “Fuck, fuck,” he pants, and he doesn’t get it, has never even _thought_ about this –

Ryan groans, the sound muffled, and he pushes Brendon’s hips further until Brendon is exposed completely for him. Again, this time with clear intent, Ryan’s tongue drags over him, and Brendon writhes underneath him, his hands fisting the sheets. Ryan spreads Brendon with both hands, and his breath is damp where it’s hitting Brendon’s skin, and _fuck_ , Brendon didn’t even know this was something guys _did_ to each other.

He has to bite his lip to stop himself from crying out when Ryan continues, every movement of his tongue coiling like embers in Brendon’s stomach, and _God,_ he’s hard, harder than he’s ever been. Brendon stares at the drop of pre-come on at his slit, wondering when the last time it was that he’s been this –

Ryan’s tongue stiffens suddenly and pushes inside without warning, and this time Brendon does cry out, his voice a raw, guttural sound against the harsh silence. His hips push off the mattress and Ryan has to hold him down with one hand, shoving against his stomach.

“Jesus,” Brendon hisses, eyes flying open, and he blinks a little hazily at the ceiling. Ryan makes an agreeing sound, and the vibration runs through Brendon, settling hard in his guts.

He’s almost used to this, he thinks, almost used to the unbearable pleasure, when Ryan pulls back, leaving Brendon wet and slightly open, and Brendon has to bite back the protests that form on his lips. He can feel Ryan staring at him, can feel his gaze traveling over him, and he doesn’t want to look, doesn’t want to know.

“You look so good right now,” Ryan says, quietly, but there’s nothing shy in his tone, nothing hidden.

Brendon swallows and meets his gaze but can’t say anything, can’t respond. He twists his hips a little, still buzzing in his skin with the memory of Ryan’s tongue on him, _in_ him, Jesus. Ryan gets the hint, ducking his head and pouring some of the lotion on his hands. Brendon doesn’t want to see this part, but he can’t look away.

Ryan slicks his fingers up in a smooth motion, like he’s a pro, like he’s done it before. Brendon has to remind himself that he hasn’t, that Brendon isn’t the only one out of his element here. Ryan doesn’t hesitate, though, probing against Brendon’s entrance with two fingers, wetting him where he’s already ready and anticipating, and with little hesitation, Ryan pushes both inside, knuckle-deep.

The sensation is new, unlike anything Brendon has ever experienced, and he has nothing to compare this to. There’s a definite sting and it feels foreign, unfamiliar. He lets out a soft grunt, not sure what he’s expected to feel here, but Ryan above him looks so fucking _focused_ , and Brendon stares at him, blocking everything out.

He can feel the slide of Ryan’s fingers in him, and the stretch is uncomfortable, but not unbearable. Ryan keeps crooking his fingers, as if trying to get him opened faster, and Brendon doesn’t get it, doesn’t understand the urgency. Ryan withdraws his fingers and then pushes back in, rougher this time, and Brendon feels the stretch less now, like his body is getting accustomed.

Brendon grabs onto Ryan’s wrist, wanting to control the speed and depth, but Ryan doesn’t let him. He’s still crooking his fingers, small movements and wet slide, and Brendon is just about to ask him what he’s doing when –

 _God_ , and Brendon’s whole body jerks off the sheets, and the moan he’s been holding back rips free from his throat. White heat envelopes him for a lingering moment and then Ryan is saying, “There?” and Brendon doesn’t know what he’s asking, but he nods, dumbly, his whole body on the verge of shaking.

Ryan keeps up the pace and the depth, his fingers crooking with more force, leaving Brendon writhing on the mattress, desperate for more, more, _more_ –

“More,” he begs, hardly registering the sound of his own voice, but then Ryan is complying, a third finger joining the first two.

The stretch is painful now, little trickles of pain flying up his spine, but he forces himself to take it. He grits his teeth, focusing instead on the flashes of pleasure, the way the tips of Ryan’s fingers feel pushing against that spot, and his muscles are accommodating, allowing the stretch. Brendon can feel wetness on his cheeks and he closes his eyes again, wrapping his mind around the movement, the slide, the heat, and every time Ryan hits the same spot as before, Brendon’s body moves like liquid.

It feels like hours later, but possibly only moments, before Brendon is saying, “Please, please,” and he’s not sure what he’s asking for, but Ryan seems to understand. He pulls out of Brendon all at once and now Brendon feels open, exposed.

There’s the sound of foil ripping, and Brendon watches Ryan roll the condom on, watches his face full of concentration and intent, and it hits him a little belatedly that this is something they are doing, and there’s no turning back from this. No disappearing, Ryan had said, and Brendon had agreed, promised not to. No disappearing.

When Ryan is slicked with lotion and prepared, Brendon feels nervousness overwhelm him, like now is the time for him to be nervous. Ryan sits between his legs and Brendon automatically wraps his legs around Ryan’s waist, before Ryan can tell him to roll over. He wants to watch him. Hates that he does.

Ryan shifts between them, angling himself, and Brendon can feel the tip of Ryan’s cock against his stretched hole. It doesn’t feel stretched enough, now, doesn’t feel possible for his body to take him.

“Ryan,” Brendon breathes, and he doesn’t know why, but it seems to help.

Ryan looms over him, one hand on Brendon’s shoulder, the other on his hip. Brendon wonders if Ryan is as affected as he is, but if he is, he’s not giving anything away. Brendon lifts up from the sheets and captures Ryan’s mouth, tasting himself on Ryan’s tongue, and something about that is making this feel even more urgent.

Ryan’s nails dig into Brendon’s skin and he closes his eyes, squeezing his eyes shut, and before Brendon can say anything else, he’s adding pressure, pushing forwards against the too-tight space.

Brendon can feel the exact moment his body gives in, can feel every inch of Ryan’s cock stretching him open, way bigger than three fingers, _way_ more –

“ _Fuck_ ,” Brendon manages through the haze of pain, his teeth digging into his bottom lip so hard he’s sure he’ll draw blood. “Fuck, _fuck_.” He keeps staring at Ryan, watching the way his mouth drops open, envying the flash of pleasure on his face. It _hurts_ , it fucking _hurts_ , and he knew it would, he knew it would hurt, and that’s what he’d wanted, it’s what he’d asked for.

Ryan stops once he’s buried completely, and Brendon gives his body time to catch up. His nails keep scratching at Ryan’s shoulder blades, every bit of his body enveloped in a strange combination of pleasure-pain. He likes this, he realizes, he likes the feeling of Ryan on him, in him, filling him and stretching him, and he can’t put words to that, can’t form his thoughts into words.

Ryan’s breathing hard, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. “Jesus Christ.” His voice is breathy, full of want, and Brendon wants to hear that sound again and again, wants to be the one to make Ryan sound like that. Ryan’s head falls to Brendon’s shoulder, and he’s licking and biting there, as if to distract himself.

The pain feels like a dull throb by the time Ryan is pulling his hips back, and Brendon feels the drag of his cock, feels every inch of it when Ryan pushes back in with more force, and this time he’s crying out and the sensations blend together. He can’t make sense of it, the way he’s still so hard and the way it _hurts_ , like nothing has ever hurt before, but even through the pain Brendon is getting harder and the crawling heat up his spine is urging him on.

“Ryan, _please,_ ” he hears himself saying. He can’t figure out what he’s asking for, but Ryan covers his mouth with his own, pressing his tongue against Brendon’s, as if to center. “Please, Ryan, _please_ –“

Ryan keeps pull back and pushing in, slowly at first, like he’s trying to give Brendon time to adjust, but Brendon doesn’t _want_ that, _God._ “Please,” he repeats, and Ryan seems to finally get it, moving forwards with sharp, unrefined thrusts.

Brendon can feel everything hyper-sensitive, and it’s still not making sense, it’s not coming together. Ryan’s thrusts are hard and off-rhythm, his mouth pressed against Brendon’s collarbone, little moans there, gasps into his skin. “You feel so  good, so fucking good,” he keeps slurring.

Brendon begins meeting Ryan’s thrusts with his hips, and the movement is frantic and does exactly what he wants it to. Ryan’s jaw drops and he moans, so fucking loudly, and Brendon wants that, wants to be the one to make Ryan come undone. From the minute he saw him, till now, that’s one thing he’s always wanted.

“Brendon,” Ryan says through his teeth, like a warning. He thrusts back in quickly and Brendon moves to meet him again, the sound of their skin coming together like a smack. “ _Fuck._ ”

Brendon’s about to beg, he’s about to fucking _beg_ for it, but he doesn’t have to. Ryan shifts the angle, rolling his hips, and then this time when he shoves back in, his cock makes contact against the spot he’d found earlier. Brendon gasps, clawing at Ryan’s back with both hands, his breath shuddering. Fuck, _fuck,_ that’s so _good_ –

Ryan pushes their foreheads together, his lips barely a hairbreadth from Brendon’s, but he doesn’t kiss him, just breathes into him. He thrusts back in again and again, starting a repeated rhythm, hard and fast and so fucking _deep_. Brendon chases the pleasure, chases the pounding in his veins, the way Ryan is slamming against him with every thrust of his hips.

Brendon reaches between them and grabs his cock, his fingers pressing against warm flesh. He feels on the verge of coming, so close, but at the same time he feels like he could do this for hours and never run out of time.

The rushing in his blood wins over, though, and the white-hot heat keeps burning in his stomach. He lifts his hips once more, needing the friction of his cock against Ryan’s stomach, needs the sensation of –

“Fuck, you’re making me –“

The words trail off into a guttural moan as his eyes roll back into his head and he’s watching the world turn on its axis, every sensation against his skin almost too much stimulation. He’s squeezing his eyes shut so tight he’s seeing stars and then he’s coming, he keeps coming, warm and wet and sticky on his stomach and Ryan’s, and all he can think about, all he can hear, is the sound of music coming from somewhere far away, and the roaring in his ears sounds almost like applause.

When he finally resurfaces, Ryan’s hips are jerking awkwardly, his rhythm faltering, and Brendon doesn’t have the time to register the look on his face before Ryan doubles over, pushing his face into Brendon’s neck, muffled moans against the sweaty skin there. He rides out his orgasm, his hips thrusting shallowly, and his groan is wordless and hoarse. Brendon just keeps staring at the ceiling, sensitive and wrapped up in something he doesn’t know how to give a name. The haze doesn’t seem to clear.

Ryan is heavy on him for several minutes while they both catch their breaths. Brendon can feel his body start to shut down, can feel every muscle in him relax. Ryan props himself up on his elbows, staring down at Brendon with an expression that gives nothing away.

Brendon swallows soundly. He meets Ryan’s gaze and wonders if there’s a challenge there.

Ryan doesn’t give him long enough to find out. He starts to lift himself, pulling out of Brendon, letting out a gasp as the sensitive head of his cock slips out and he pulls the condom off. Brendon can feel the stinging sensation more clearly now, and he winces at the ache. Ryan falls to the bed beside him and the tense quiet is something Brendon expected, something he anticipated, but it still feels too heavy.

Ryan says, “Did you want to talk about it?”

Brendon wonders if he realizes that he’s echoing their previous conversation. “Did you?” His voice is too soft, vulnerable.

Ryan sighs and rolls onto his side, facing Brendon. His eyes aren’t giving anything away and Brendon wonders how he does that, how he manages a mask. “No,” he says, and traces a circle into Brendon’s chest. “In the morning.”

Brendon wants to protest to that, wants to ask Ryan how he knows that Brendon will stay the night, except, of course, yeah. No disappearing. He’d said he wouldn’t.

Brendon swallows, doesn’t say anything to that. He thinks about God, watching them, condemning them for this one sin. The panicky sensation he used to feel at those thoughts is gone, taken away by the sinful feeling of Ryan’s skin on his, Ryan’s lips, his tongue, his _cock_ –

Brendon’s own cock shudders with sympathy, showing an interest in getting hard again. He rolls over to face Ryan head-on, meet his gaze, but Ryan is already drifting off to sleep. Figures. Brendon wants to reach out, wants to touch him, wants to understand all the things Ryan has been keeping away and hiding and not-saying. He wants to hear Ryan say that he’d been wrong.

He doesn’t get the chance to say any of these things out loud. He reaches for the lamp, fumbling with the switch, and the darkness is upon them again.

He can almost pretend that Ryan isn’t beautiful.


End file.
